LADY 
BOUNTIFUL 

GA.BIRMINGHAM 

U 


LADY  BOUNTIFUL 
G.  A.  BIRMINGHAM 


BY  G.  A.  BIRMINGHAM 

LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

ADVENTURERS  OF  THE  NIGHT 

UP,  THE  REBELS! 

OUR  CASUALTY  AND  OTHER  STORIES 

THE  ISLAND  MYSTERY 

GOSSAMER 

MINNIE'S  BISHOP  AND  OTHER  STORIES 

GENERAL  JOHN  REGAN 

THE    LOST   TRIBES 

SPANISH  GOLD 
LALAGE'S  LOVERS 
THE  SEARCH  PARTY 

THE    SIMPKINS    PLOT 

THE  MAJOR'S  NIECE 

PRISCILLA'S  SPIES 

THE  RED  HAND  OF  ULSTER 

THE  ADVENTURES  OF  DR.  WHITTY 

THE  SEETHING  POT 

THE  BAD  TIMES 

HYACINTH 

FROM  DUBLIN  TO  CHICAGO 

NEW  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


LADY  BOUNTIFUL 


BY 

G.  ¥L  BIRMINGHAM 

'Author  of  "Adventurers  of  the  Night"  "Up,  ihe 

Rebels!"  "Our  Casualty,"  "Spanish  Gold," 

"The  Island  Mystery,"  etc. 


NEW  XSJr  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 


Copyright, 
By  George  H.  Doran  Company 


Printed  m  the  United  State*  of  America 


CONTENTS 

PART  ONE 

PAfll 

I       LADY    BOUNTIFUL     .........  9 

II       THE   STRIKE   BREAKER    ....        .        .        .        .  26 

III  THE    FACULTY    OF    MEDICINE     ......  45 

IV  A   LUNATIC    AT  LARGE 66 

V       THE    BANDS    OF    BALLYGUTTERY 89 

VI       STARTING   THE    TRAIN 105 

VII       UNLAWFUL    POSSESSION 120 

VIII       A    SOUL    FOR    A    LIFE 136 

PART  TWO 

IX      A    BIRD    IN    HAND ..:       .  159 

X       THE    EMERALD    PENDANT 173 

XI       SETTLED    OUT    OF    COURT 190 

XII       A   COMPETENT   MECHANIC 204 

XIII  MY    NIECE    KITTY .        .  219 

XIV  A     ROYAL     MARRIAGE 233 

XT      AUNT   NELL 251 


2057393 


LADY  BOUNTIFUL 


PART  ONE 


LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

PART  ONE 

I 
LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

SOCIETY  in  the  west  of  Ireland  is  beauti- 
fully tolerant.  A  man  may  do  many 
things  there,  things  frowned  on  elsewhere, 
without  losing  caste.  He  may,  for  instance, 
drink  heavily,  appearing  in  public  when  plainly 
intoxicated,  and  no  one  thinks  much  the  worse 
of  him.  He  may  be  in  debt  up  to  the  verge  of 
bankruptcy  and  yet  retain  his  position  in  society. 
But  he  may  not  marry  his  cook.  When  old  Sir 
Tony  Corless  did  that,  he  lost  caste.  He  was  a 
baronet  of  long  descent,  being,  in  fact,  the  fifth 
Corless  who  held  the  title. 

Castle  Affey  was  a  fine  old  place,  one  of  the 
best  houses  in  the  county,  but  people  stopped 
going  there  and  stopped  asking  Sir  Tony  to  din- 
ner. They  could  not  stand  the  cook. 


10  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

Bridie  Malone  was  her  name  before  she  be- 
came Lady  Corless.  She  was  the  daughter  of 
the  blacksmith  in  the  village  at  the  gates  of 
Castle  Affey,  and  she  was  at  least  forty  years 
younger  than  Sir  Tony.  People  shook  their 
heads  when  they  heard  of  the  marriage  and  said 
that  the  old  gentleman  must  be  doting. 

"It  isn't  even  as  if  she  was  a  reasonably  good- 
looking  girl,"  said  Captain  Corless,  pathetically. 
"If  she  had  been  a  beauty  I  could  have  under- 
stood it,  but — the  poor  old  dad!" 

Captain  Corless  was  the  son  of  another,  a  very 
different  Lady  Corless,  and  some  day  he  in  his 
turn  would  become  Sir  Tony.  Meanwhile,  hav- 
ing suffered  a  disabling  wound  early  in  the  war, 
he  had  secured  a  pleasant  and  fairly  well-paid 
post  as  inspector  under  the  Irish  Government. 
No  one,  not  even  Captain  Corless  himself,  knew 
exactly  what  he  inspected,  but  there  was  no  un- 
certainty about  the  salary.  It  was  paid  quar- 
terly. 

Bridie  Malone  was  not  good-looking.  Cap- 
tain Corless  was  perfectly  right  about  that.  She 
was  very  imperfectly  educated.  She  could  sign 
her  name,  but  the  writing  of  anything  except 
her  name  was  a  difficulty  to  her.  She  could  read, 


LADY  BOUNTIFUL  11 

though  only  if  the  print  were  large  and  the 
words  were  not  too  long. 

But  she  possessed  certain  qualities  not  very 
common  in  any  class.  She  had,  for  instance, 
quite  enough  common  sense  to  save  her  from  pos- 
ing as  a  great  lady.  Sir  Tony  lost  caste  by  his 
marriage.  Bridie  Malone  did  not  sacrifice  a 
single  friend  when  she  became  Lady  Corless. 
She  remained  on  excellent  terms  with  her  father, 
her  six  younger  sisters,  and  her  four  brothers. 
She  remained  on  excellent  terms  with  everyone 
in  the  village. 

In  the  big  house  of  which  she  became  mistress 
she  had  her  difficulties  at  first.  The  other  ser- 
vants, especially  the  butler  and  the  upper  house- 
maid, resented  her  promotion  and  sought  new 
situations.  Bridie  replaced  them,  replaced  the 
whole  staff  with  relatives  of  her  own. 

Castle  Affey  was  run  by  the  Malone  famtty. 
Danny,  a  young  man  who  helped  his  father  in 
the  forge,  became  butler.  Sarah  Malone,  Susy 
Malone,  and  Mollie  Malone  swept  the  floors, 
made  the  beds,  and  lit  the  fires.  Bridie  taught 
them  their  duties  and  saw  that  they  did  them 
thoroughly.  Though  she  was  Lady  Corless,  she 
took  her  meals  with  her  family  in  the  servants' 
hall  and  made  it  her  business  to  see  that  Sir 


12  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

Tony  was  thoroughly  comfortable  and  well-fed. 
The  old  gentleman  had  never  been  so  comfort- 
able in  his  life,  or  better  fed. 

He  had  never  been  so  free  from  worry. 
Bridie  took  over  the  management  of  the  garden 
and  farm.  She  employed  her  own  relatives. 
There  was  an  ample  supply  of  them,  for  almost 
everyone  in  the  village  was  related  to  the  Ma- 
lones.  She  paid  good  wages,  but  she  insisted  on 
getting  good  work,  and  she  never  allowed  her 
husband  to  trouble  about  anything. 

Old  Sir  Tony  found  life  a  much  easier  busi- 
ness than  he  had  ever  found  it  before.  He 
chuckled  when  Captain  Corless,  who  paid  an 
occasional  visit  to  Castle  Affey,  pitied  him. 

"You  think  I'm  a  doddering  old  fool,"  he 
said,  "but,  by  gad,  Tony,  the  most  sensible  thing 
I  ever  did  in  my  life  was  to  marry  Bridie  Ma- 
lone!  If  you're  wise  you'll  take  on  your  step- 
mother as  housekeeper  here  and  general  man- 
ager after  I'm  gone.  Not  that  I'm  thinking  of 
going.  I'm  seventy-two.  You  know  that, 
Tony.  But  living  as  I  do  now,  without  a  single 
thing  to  bother  me,  I'm  good  for  another  twenty 
years — or  thirty.  In  fact,  I  don't  see  why  the 
deuce  I  should  ever  die  at  all!  It's  worry  and 


LADY  BOUNTIFUL  13 

work  which  kill  men,  and  I've  neither  one  nor 
the  other." 

It  was  Lady  Corless'  custom  to  spend  the 
evenings  with  her  husband  in  the  smoking-room. 
When  he  had  dined — and  he  always  dined  well — 
he  settled  down  in  a  large  armchair  with  a  de- 
canter of  whisky  and  a  box  of  cigars  beside  him. 

There  was  always,  summer  and  winter,  a  fire 
burning  on  the  open  hearth.  There  was  a  good 
supply  of  newspapers  and  magazines,  for  Sir 
Tony,  though  he  lived  apart  from  the  world, 
liked  to  keep  in  touch  with  politics  and  the  ques- 
tions of  the  day.  Lady  Corless  sat  opposite  him 
on  a  much  less  comfortable  chair  and  knitted 
stockings.  If  there  was  any  news  in  the  village, 
she  told  it  to  him,  and  he  listened,  for,  like  many 
old  men,  he  took  a  deep  interest  in  his  neigh- 
bour's affairs. 

If  there  was  anything  important  or  curious 
in  the  papers,  he  read  it  out  to  her.  But  she 
very  seldom  listened.  Her  strong  common  sense 
saved  her  from  taking  any  interest  in  the  war 
while  it  lasted,  the  peace,  when  it  was  discussed, 
or  politics,  which  gurgle  on  through  war  and 
peace  alike. 

With  the  care  of  a  great  house,  a  garden,  and 
eighty  acres  of  land  on  her  shoulders,  she  had 


14  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

no  mental  energy  to  spare  for  public  affairs  of 
any  kind.  Between  half-past  ten  and  eleven 
Sir  Tony  went  to  bed.  He  was  an  old  gentle- 
man of  regular  habits,  and  by  that  time  the 
whisky-decanter  was  always  empty.  Lady  Cor- 
less  helped  him  upstairs,  saw  to  it  that  his  fire 
was  burning  and  his  pyjamas  warm.  She  dealt 
with  buttons  and  collar-studs,  which  are  some- 
times troublesome  to  old  gentlemen  who  have 
drunk  port  at  dinner  and  whisky  afterwards. 
She  wound  his  watch  for  him,  and  left  him  warm 
and  sleeping  comfortably. 

One  evening  Sir  Tony  read  from  an  English 
paper  a  paragraph  which  caught  Lady  Corless' 
attention.  It  was  an  account  of  the  means  by 
which  the  Government  hoped  to  mitigate  the 
evils  of  the  unemployment  likely  to  follow  de- 
mobilisation and  the  closing  of  munition  works. 
An  out-of-work  benefit  of  twenty-five  shillings 
a  week  struck  her  as  a  capital  thing,  likely  to  be- 
come very  popular.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life 
she  became  slightly  interested  in  politics. 

Sir  Tony  passed  from  that  paragraph  to  an- 
other, which  dealt  with  the  future  of  Dantzig. 
Lady  Corless  at  once  stopped  listening  to  what 
he  read.  She  went  on  knitting  her  stocking; 
but  instead  of  letting  her  thoughts  work  on  the 


LADY  BOUNTIFUL  15 

problems  of  the  eggs  laid  by  her  hens,  and  the 
fish  for  Sir  Tony's  dinner  the  next  day,  she 
turned  over  in  her  mind  the  astonishing  news 
that  the  Government  actually  proposed  to  pay 
people,  and  to  pay  them  well,  for  not  working. 
The  thing  struck  her  as  too  good  to  be  true,  and 
she  suspected  that  there  must  be  some  saving 
clause,  some  hidden  trap  which  would  destroy 
the  value  of  the  whole  scheme. 

After  she  had  put  Sir  Tony  to  bed  she  went 
back  to  the  smoking-room  and  opened  the  paper 
from  which  the  news  had  been  read.  It  took 
her  some  time  to  find  the  paragraph.  Her 
search  was  rendered  difficult  by  the  fact  that  the 
editor,  much  interested,  apparently,  in  a  subject 
called  the  League  of  Nations,  had  tucked  this 
really  important  piece  of  news  into  a  corner  of  a 
back  page.  In  the  end,  when  she  discovered 
what  she  wanted,  she  was  not  much  better  off. 
The  print  was  small.  The  words  were  long  and 
of  a  very  unusual  kind.  Lady  Corless  could  not 
satisfy  herself  about  their  meaning.  She  folded 
the  paper  up  and  put  it  safely  into  a  drawer  in 
the  kitchen  dresser  before  she  went  to  bed. 

Next  day,  rising  early,  as  she  always  did,  she 
fed  her  fowls  and  set  the  morning's  milk  in  the 
dairy.  She  got  Sir  Tony's  breakfast  ready  at 


16  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

nine  o'clock  and  took  it  up  to  him.  She  saw  to 
it  that  Danny,  who  was  inclined  to  be  lazy,  was 
in  his  pantry  polishing  silver.  She  made  it  clear 
to  Sarah,  Susy,  and  Molly  that  she  really  meant 
the  library  to  be  thoroughly  cleaned.  It  was  a 
room  which  was  never  occupied,  and  the  three 
girls  saw  no  sense  in  sweeping  the  floor  and  dust- 
ing the  backs  of  several  thousand  books.  But 
their  sister  was  firm  and  they  had  learnt  to  obey 
her. 

Without  troubling  to  put  on  a  hat  or  to  take 
off  her  working  apron,  Lady  Corless  got  on  her 
bicycle  and  rode  down  to  her  father's  forge. 
She  had  in  her  pocket  the  newspaper  which  con- 
tained the  important  paragraph. 

Old  Malone  laid  aside  a  cart-wheel  to  which 
he  was  fitting  a  new  rim  and  followed  his  daugh- 
ter into  the  house.  He  was  much  better  edu- 
cated than  she  was  and  had  been  for  many  years 
a  keen  and  active  politician.  He  took  in  the 
meaning  of  the  paragraph  at  once. 

"Gosh!"  he  said.  "If  that's  true— and  I'm 
not  saying  it  is  true ;  but,  if  it  is,  it's  the  best  yet. 
It's  what's  been  wanted  in  Ireland  this  long 
time." 

He  read  the  paragraph  through  again,  slowly 
and  carefully. 


LADY  BOUNTIFUL  17 

"Didn't  I  tell  you?"  he  said,  "didn't  I  tell 
everyone  when  the  election  was  on,  that  the  Sinn 
Feiners  was  the  lads  to  do  the  trick  for  us? 
Didn't  I  say  that  without  we'd  get  a  republic  in 
Ireland  the  country  would  do  no  good?  And 
there's  the  proof  of  it." 

He  slapped  the  paper  heartily  with  his  hand. 
To  Lady  Corless,  whose  mind  was  working  rap- 
idly, his  reasoning  seemed  a  little  inconclusive. 
It  even  struck  her  that  an  Irish  republic,  had 
such  a  thing  really  come  into  being,  might  not 
have  been  able  to  offer  the  citizens  the  glorious 
chance  of  a  weekly  pension  of  twenty-five  shil- 
lings. But  she  was  aware  that  politics  is  a  com- 
plex business  in  which  she  was  not  trained.  She 
said  nothing.  Her  father  explained  his  line  of 
thought. 

"If  them  fellows  over  in  England,"  he  said, 
"weren't  terrible  frightened  of  the  Sinn  Feiners, 
would  they  be  offering  us  the  likes  of  that  to 
keep  us  quiet?  Bedamn,  but  they  would  not. 
Nobody  ever  got  a  penny  out  of  an  Englishman 
yet,  without  he'd  frightened  him  first.  And  it's 
the  Sinn  Feiners  done  that.  There's  the  why 
and  the  wherefore  of  it  to  you.  Twenty-five 
shillings  a  week !  It  ought  to  be  thirty  shillings, 
so  it  ought.  But  sure,  twenty-five  shillings  is 


18  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

something,  and  I'd  be  in  favour  of  taking  it,  so 
I  would.  Let  the  people  of  Ireland  take  it,  I 
say,  as  an  instalment  of  what's  due  to  them,  and 
what  they'll  get  in  the  latter  end,  please  God!" 

"Can  you  make  out  how  a  man's  to  get  it?" 
said  Lady  Corless. 

"Man!"  said  old  Malone.  "Man!  No,  but 
man  and  woman.  There  isn't  a  girl  in  the  coun- 
try, let  alone  a  boy,  but  what's  entitled  to  it,  and 
I'd  like  to  see  the  police  or  anyone  else  interfer- 
ing with  them  getting  it." 

"Will  it  be  paid  out  of  the  post  office  like  the 
Old  Age  Pensions?"  said  Lady  Corless. 

"I  don't  know  will  it,"  said  her  father,  "but 
that  way  or  some  other  way  it's  bound  to  be  paid, 
and  all  anyone  has  to  do  is  to  go  over  to  what 
they  call  the  Labour  Exchange,  at  Dunbeg,  and 
say  there's  no  work  for  him  where  he  lives. 
Then  he'll  get  the  money.  It's  what  the  young 
fellow  in  that  office  is  there  for,  is  to  give  the 
money,  and  by  damn  if  he  doesn't  do  it  there'll 
be  more  heard  about  the  matter!" 

Old  Malone,  anxious  to  spread  the  good  news, 
left  the  room  and  walked  down  to  the  public 
house  at  the  corner  of  the  village  street.  Lady 
Corless  went  into  the  kitchen  and  found  her 
three  youngest  sisters  drinking  tea.  They  sat 


LADY  BOUNTIFUL  19 

on  low  stools  before  the  fire  and  had  a  black  tea- 
pot with  a  broken  spout  standing  on  the  hearth 
at  their  feet.  The  tea  in  the  pot  was  very  black 
and  strong.  Lady  Corless  addressed  them 
solemnly. 

"Katey-Ann,"  she  said,  "listen  to  me  now, 
and  let  you  be  listening  too,  Onnie,  and  let 
Honoria  stop  scratching  her  head  and  attend 
to  what  I'm  saying  to  the  whole  of  you.  I'm 
taking  you  on  up  at  the  big  house  as  upper 
house-maid,  Katey-Ann." 

"And  what's  come  over  Sarah,"  said  Katey- 
Ann.  "Is  she  going  to  be  married?" 

"Never  mind  you  about  Sarah,"  said  Lady 
Corless,  "but  attend  to  me.  You're  the  under- 
housemaid,  Onnie,  so  you  are,  in  place  of  your 
sister  Susy,  and  Honoria  here  is  kitchen-maid. 
If  anyone  comes  asking  you  questions  that's 
what  you  are  and  that's  what  you're  to  say.  Do 
you  understand  me  now?  But  mind  this.  I 
don't  want  you  up  at  the  house,  ne'er  a  one  of 
you.  You'll  stay  where  you  are  and  you'll  do 
what  you're  doing,  looking  after  your  father 
and  drinking  tea,  the  same  as  before,  only  your 
wages  will  be  paid  regular  to  you.  Where's 
Thady?" 

Thady  Malone  was  the  youngest  of  the  family. 


20  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

Since  Dan  became  butler  at  Castle  Affey,  Thady 
had  given  his  father  such  help  as  he  could  at  the 
forge.  Lady  Corless  found  him  seated  beside 
the  bellows  smoking  a  cigarette.  His  red  hair 
was  a  tangled  shock.  His  face  and  hands  were 
extraordinarily  dirty.  He  was  enjoying  a 
leisure  hour  or  two  while  his  father  was  at  the 
public  house.  To  his  amazement  he  found  him- 
self engaged  as  butler  and  valet  to  Sir  Tony 
Corless  of  Castle  Affey. 

"But  you'll  not  be  coming  up  to  the  house," 
said  Lady  Corless,  "neither  by  day  nor  night. 
Mind  that.  I'd  be  ashamed  for  anyone  to  see 
you,  so  I  would,  for  if  you  washed  your  face  for 
the  Christmas  it's  the  last  time  you  did  it." 

That  afternoon,  after  Sir  Tony's  luncheon  had 
been  served,  Danny,  Sarah,  .Susy  and  Molly 
were  formally  dismissed.  Their  insurance  cards 
were  stamped  and  their  wages  were  paid  up  to 
date.  It  was  explained  to  them  at  some  length, 
with  many  repetitions  but  quite  clearly,  that 
though  dismissed  they  were  to  continue  to  do 
their  work  as  before.  The  only  difference  in 
their  position  was  that  their  wages  would  no 
longer  be  paid  by  Sir  Tony.  They  would  re- 
ceive much  larger  wages,  the  almost  incredible 
sum  of  twenty-five  shillings  a  week,  from  the 


LADY  BOUNTIFUL  21 

Government.  Next  day  the  four  Malones  drove 
over  to  Dunbeg  and  applied  for  out-of-work  pay 
at  the  Labour  Exchange.  After  due  inquiries 
and  the  signing  of  some  papers  by  Lady  Cor- 
less,  their  claims  were  admitted.  Four  farm 
labourers,  two  gardeners,  and  a  groom,  all 
cousins  of  Lady  Corless,  were  dismissed  in  the 
course  of  the  following  week.  Seven  young  men 
from  the  village,  all  of  them  related  to  Lady 
Corless,  were  formally  engaged.  The  insurance 
cards  of  the  dismissed  men  were  properly 
stamped.  They  were  indubitably  out  of  work. 
They  received  unemployment  pay. 

After  that,  the  dismissal  of  servants,  indoor 
and  out,  became  a  regular  feature  of  life  at 
Castle  Affey.  On  Monday  morning,  Lady  Cor- 
less went  down  to  the  village  and  dismissed 
everyone  whom  she  had  engaged  the  week  be- 
fore. Her  expenditure  in  insurance  stamps  was 
considerable,  for  she  thought  it  desirable  to 
stamp  all  cards  for  at  least  a  month  back. 
Otherwise  her  philanthropy  did  not  cost  her 
much  and  she  had  very  little  trouble.  The  orig- 
inal staff  went  on  doing  the  work  at  Castle 
Affey.  After  three  months  every  man  and 
woman  in  the  village  had  passed  in  and  out  of 


22  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

Sir  Tony's  service,  and  everyone  was  drawing 
unemployment  pay. 

The  village  became  extremely  prosperous. 
New  hats,  blouses,  and  entire  costumes  of  the 
most  fashionable  kind  were  to  be  seen  in  the 
streets  every  Sunday.  Large  sums  of  money 
were  lost  and  won  at  coursing  matches.  Nearly 
everyone  had  a  bicycle,  and  old  Malone  bought, 
second  hand,  a  rather  dilapidated  motor-car. 
Work  of  almost  every  kind  ceased  entirely,  ex- 
cept in  the  big  house,  and  nobody  got  out  of  bed 
before  ten  o'clock.  In  mere  gratitude,  rents  of 
houses  were  paid  to  Sir  Tony  which  had  not 
been  paid  for  many  years  before. 

Lady  Corless  finally  dismissed  herself.  She 
did  not,  of  course,  resign  the  position  of  Lady 
Corless.  It  is  doubtful  whether  she  could  have 
got  twenty-five  shillings  a  week  if  she  had.  The 
Government  does  not  seem  to  have  contemplated 
the  case  of  unemployed  wives.  What  she  did 
was  to  dismiss  Bridie  Malone,  cook  at  Castle 
Affey  before  her  marriage.  She  had  been  mar- 
ried, and  therefore,  technically  speaking,  unem- 
ployed for  nearly  two  years,  but  that  did  not 
seem  to  matter.  She  secured  the  twenty-five 
shillings  a  week  and  only  just  failed  to  get  an- 
other five  shillings  which  she  claimed  on  the 


LADY  BOUNTIFUL  23 

ground  that  her  husband  was  very  old  and  en- 
tirely dependent  on  her.  She  felt  the  rejection 
of  this  claim  to  be  an  injustice. 

Captain  Corless,  after  a  long  period  of  pleas- 
ant leisure,  found  himself  suddenly  called  on 
to  write  a  report  on  the  working  of  the  Unem- 
ployment-Pay Scheme  in  Ireland.  With  a  view 
to  doing  his  work  thoroughly  he  hired  a  motor- 
car and  made  a  tour  of  some  of  the  more  pictur- 
esque parts  of  the  country.  He  so  arranged  his 
journeys  that  he  was  able  to  stop  each  night  at 
a  place  where  there  was  a  fairly  good  hotel.  He 
made  careful  inquiries  everywhere,  and  noted 
facts  for  the  enlightenment  of  the  Treasury,  for 
whose  benefit  his  report  was  to  be  drawn  up. 
He  also  made  notes,  in  a  private  book,  of  some 
of  the  more  amusing  and  unexpected  ways  in 
which  the  scheme  worked.  He  found  himself, 
in  the  course  of  his  tour,  close  to  Castle  Aifey, 
and,  being  a  dutiful  son,  called  on  his  father. 

He  found  old  Sir  Tony  in  a  particularly  good 
humour.  He  also  found  matter  enough  to  fill 
his  private  note-book. 

"No  telling  tales,  Tony,  now,"  said  the  old 
man.  "No  reports  about  Castle  Affey  to  the 
Government.  Do  you  hear  me  now?  Unless 
you  give  me  your  word  of  honour  not  to  breathe 


24  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

what  I'm  going  to  tell  you  to  anybody  except 
your  friends,  I  won't  say  a  word." 

"I  promise,  of  course,"  said  Captain  Corless. 

"Your  step-mother's  a  wonderful  woman," 
said  Sir  Tony,  "a  regular  lady  bountiful,  by 
Jove!  You  wouldn't  believe  how  rich  every- 
body round  here  is  now,  and  all  through  her.  I 
give  you  my  word,  Tony,  if  the  whisky  was  to  be 
got — which,  of  course,  it  isn't  now-a-days — there 
isn't  a  man  in  the  place  need  go  to  bed  sober 
from  one  week's  end  to  another.  They  could 
all  afford  it.  And  it's  your  step-mother  who  put 
the  money  into  their  pockets.  Nobody  else 
would  have  thought  of  it.  Look  here,  you've 
heard  of  this  unemployment-pay  business,  I 
suppose?" 

"I'm  conducting  an  inquiry  about  it  at  the 
present  moment." 

"Then  I  won't  say  another  word,"  said  Sir 
Tony.  "But  it's  a  pity.  You'd  have  enjoyed 
the  story." 

"I  needn't  put  everything  I'm  told  into  my 
report,"  said  Captain  Corless.  "A  good  deal  of 
what  I  hear  isn't  true." 

"Well,  then,  you  can  just  consider  my  story 
to  be  an  invention,"  said  Sir  Tony. 


LADY  BOUNTIFUL  25 

Captain  Corless  listened  to  the  story.  When 
it  was  finished  he  shook  hands  with  his  father. 

"Dad,"  he  said,  "I  apologise  to  you.  I 
said —  There's  no  harm  in  telling  you  now 
that  I  said  you  were  an  old  fool  when  you  mar- 
ried the  blacksmith's  daughter.  I  see  now  that 
I  was  wrong.  You  married  the  only  woman  in 
Ireland  who  understands  how  to  make  the  most 
of  the  new  law.  Why,  everybody  else  in  your 
position  is  cursing  this  scheme  as  the  ruin  of  the 
country,  and  Lady  Corless  is  the  only  one  who's 
tumbled  to  the  idea  of  using  it  to  make  the  people 
happy  and  contented.  She's  a  great  woman." 

"But  don't  tell  on  us,  Tony,"  said  the  old  man. 
"Honour  bright,  now,  don't  tell!" 

"My  dear  Dad,  of  course  not.  Anyway,  they 
wouldn't  believe  me  if  I  did." 


II 

THE  STRIKE  BREAKER 

THE  train  was  an  hour-and-a-quarter  late 
at  Finnabeg.  Sir  James  McClaren, 
alone  in  a  first-class  smoking  compart- 
ment, was  not  surprised.  He  had  never  travelled 
in  Ireland  before,  but  he  held  a  belief  that  time 
is  very  little  accounted  of  west  of  the  Shannon. 
He  looked  out  of  the  window  at  the  rain-swept 
platform.  It  seemed  to  him  that  every  passen- 
ger except  himself  was  leaving  the  train  at 
Finnabeg.  This  did  not  surprise  him  much. 
There  was  only  one  more  station,  Dunadea,  the 
terminus  of  the  branch  line  on  which  Sir  James 
was  travelling.  It  lay  fifteen  miles  further  on, 
across  a  desolate  stretch  of  bog.  It  was  not  to 
be  supposed  that  many  people  wanted  to  go  to 
Dunadea. 

Sir  James  looking  out  of  his  window,  noticed 
that  the  passengers  who  alighted  did  not  leave 
the  station.  They  stood  in  groups  on  the  plat- 
form and  talked  to  each  other.  They  took  no 
notice  of  the  rain,  though  it  was  very  heavy. 


THE  STRIKE  BREAKER         27 

Now  and  then  one  or  two  of  them  came  to  Sir 
James'  carriage  and  peered  in  through  the  win- 
dow. They  seemed  interested  in  him.  A  tall 
young  priest  stared  at  him  for  a  long  time.  Two 
commercial  travellers  joined  the  priest  and 
looked  at  Sir  James.  A  number  of  women  took 
the  place  of  the  priest  and  the  commercial  trav- 
ellers when  they  went  away.  Finally,  the  guard, 
the  engine  driver,  and  the  station  master  came 
and  looked  in  through  the  window.  They  with- 
drew together  and  sat  on  a  barrow  at  the  far 
end  of  the  platform.  They  lit  their  pipes  and 
consulted  together.  The  priest  joined  them  and 
offered  advice.  Sir  James  became  a  little  im- 
patient. 

Half  an  hour  passed.  The  engine  driver,  the 
station  master,  and  the  guard  knocked  the  ashes 
out  of  their  pipes  and  walked  over  to  Sir  James' 
compartment.  The  guard  opened  the  door. 

"Is  it  Dunadea  you're  for,  your  honour?"  he 
said. 

"Yes,"  said  Sir  James.  "When  are  you 
going  on?" 

The  guard  turned  to  the  engine  driver. 

"It's  what  I'm  after  telling  you,"  he  said,  "it's 
Dunadea  the  gentleman's  for." 

"It  might  be  better  for  him,"  said  the  engine 


28  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

driver,  "if  he  was  to  content  himself  with  Finna- 
beg  for  this  day  at  any  rate." 

"Do  you  hear  that,  your  honour?"  said  the 
guard.  "Michael  here,  says  it  would  be  better 
for  you  to  stay  in  Finnabeg." 

"There's  a  grand  hotel,  so  there  is,"  said  the 
station  master,  "the  same  that's  kept  by  Mrs. 
Mulcahy,  and  devil  the  better  you'll  find  be- 
tween this  and  Dublin." 

Sir  James  looked  from  one  man  to  the  other 
in  astonishment.  Nowadays  the  public  is  accus- 
tomed to  large  demands  from  railway  workers, 
demands  for  higher  wages  and  shorter  hours. 
But  Sir  James  had  never  before  heard  of  an 
engine  driver  who  tried  to  induce  a  passenger  to 
get  out  of  his  train  fifteen  miles  short  of  his  des- 
tination. 

"I  insist,"  he  said  abruptly,  "on  your  taking 
me  on  to  Dunadea." 

"It's  what  I  told  you  all  along,  Michael,"  said 
the  guard.  "He's  a  mighty  determined  gentle- 
man, so  he  is.  I  knew  that  the  moment  I  set 
eyes  on  him." 

The  guard  was  perfectly  right.  Sir  James 
was  a  man  of  most  determined  character.  His 
career  proved  it.  Before  the  war  he  had  been 
professor  of  economics  in  a  Scottish  University, 


THE  STRIKE  BREAKER         29 

lecturing  to  a  class  of  ten  or  twelve  students  for 
a  salary  of  .£250  a  year.  When  peace  came  he 
was  the  head  of  a  newly-created  Ministry  of 
Strikes,  controlling  a  staff  of  a  thousand  or 
twelve  hundred  men  and  women,  drawing  a 
salary  of  £2,500  a  year.  Only  a  man  of  immense 
determination  can  achieve  such  results.  He  had 
garnered  in  a  knighthood  as  he  advanced.  It 
was  the  reward  of  signal  service  to  the  State 
when  he  held  the  position  of  Chief  Controller  of 
Information  and  Statistics. 

"Let  him  not  be  saying  afterwards  that  he 
didn't  get  a  proper  warning,"  said  the  engine 
driver. 

He  walked  towards  his  engine  as  he  spoke. 
The  guard  and  the  station  master  followed  him. 

"I  suppose  now,  Michael,"  said  the  guard, 
"that  you'll  not  be  wanting  me." 

"I  will  not,"  said  the  engine  driver.  'The 
train  will  do  nicely  without  you  for  as  far  as  I'm 
going  to  take  her." 

Sir  James  did  not  hear  either  the  guard's 
question  or  the  driver's  answer.  He  did  hear, 
with  great  satisfaction,  what  the  station  master 
said  next. 

"Are  you  right  there  now?"  the  man  shouted, 
"for  if  you  are  it's  time  you  were  starting." 


30  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

He  unrolled  a  green  flag  and  waved  it.  He 
blew  a  shrill  blast  on  his  whistle.  The  driver 
stepped  into  the  cab  of  the  engine  and  handled 
his  levers.  The  train  started. 

Sir  James  leaned  back  in  the  corner  of  his 
compartment  and  smiled.  The  track  over  which 
he  travelled  was  badly  laid  and  the  train  ad- 
vanced by  jerks  and  bumps.  But  the  motion 
was  pleasant  to  Sir  James.  Any  forward  move- 
ment of  that  train  would  have  been  pleasant  to 
him.  Each  bump  and  jerk  brought  him  a  little 
nearer  to  Dunadea  and  therefore  a  little  nearer 
to  Miss  Molly  Dennison.  Sir  James  was  very 
heartily  in  love  with  a  girl  who  seemed  to  him 
to  be  the  most  beautiful  and  the  most  charming 
in  the  whole  world.  Next  day,  such  was  his 
good  fortune,  he  was  to  marry  her.  Under  the 
circumstances  a  much  weaker  man  than  Sir 
James  would  have  withstood  the  engine  driver 
and  resisted  the  invitation  of  Mrs.  Mulcahy's 
hotel  in  Finnabeg.  Under  the  circumstances 
even  an  intellectual  man  of  the  professor  type 
was  liable  to  pleasant  day  dreams. 

Sir  James'  thoughts  went  back  to  the  day,  six 
months  before,  when  he  had  first  seen  Miss 
Molly  Dennison.  She  had  been  recommended 
to  him  by  a  friend  as  a  young  lady  likely  to  make 


THE  STRIKE  BREAKER          31 

an  efficient  private  secretary.  Sir  James,  who 
had  just  become  Head  of  the  Ministry  of 
Strikes,  wanted  a  private  secretary.  He  ap- 
pointed Miss  Dennison,  and  saw  her  for  the 
first  time  when  she  presented  herself  in  his  office. 
At  that  moment  his  affection  was  born.  It  grew 
and  strengthened  day  by  day.  Miss  Molly's 
complexion  was  the  radiant  product  of  the  soft, 
wet,  winds  of  Connaugh,  which  had  blown  on  her 
since  her  birth.  Not  even  four  years'  work  in 
Government  offices  in  London  had  dulled  her 
cheeks.  Her  smile  had  the  fresh  innocence  of 
a  child's  and  she  possessed  a  curious  felicity  of 
manner  which  was  delightful  though  a  little 
puzzling.  Her  view  of  strikes  and  the  important 
work  of  the  Ministry  was  fresh  and  quite  uncon- 
ventional. Sir  James,  who  had  all  his  life  moved 
among  serious  and  earnest  people,  found  Miss 
Molly's  easy  cheerfulness  very  fascinating. 
Even  portentous  words  like  syndicalism,  which 
rang  in  other  people's  ears  like  the  passing  bells  ^» 
of  our  social  order,  moved  her  to  airy  laughter. 
There  were  those,  oldish  men  and  slightly  less 
oldish  women,  who  called  her  flippant.  Sir 
James  offered  her  his  hand,  his  heart,  his  title, 
and  a  share  of  his  £2,500  a  year.  Miss  Molly 
accepted  all  four,  resigned  her  secretaryship  and 


32  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

went  home  to  her  father's  house  in  Dunadea  to 
prepare  her  trousseau. 

The  train  stopped  abruptly.  But  even  the 
hump  and  the  ceasing  of  noise  did  not  fully 
arouse  Sir  James  from  his  pleasant  dreams.  He 
looked  out  of  the  window  and  satisfied  himself 
that  he  had  not  reached  Dunadea  station  or 
indeed  any  other  station.  The  rain  ran  down 
the  window  glass,  obscuring  his  view  of  the  land- 
scape. He  was  dimly  aware  of  a  wide  stretch 
of  grey-brown  bog,  of  drifting  grey  clouds  and 
of  a  single  whitewashed  cottage  near  the  railway 
line.  He  lit  a  cigarette  and  lay  back  again. 
Molly's  face  floated  before  his  eyes.  The  sound 
of  Molly's  voice  was  fresh  in  his  memory.  He 
thought  of  the  next  day  and  the  return  journey 
across  the  bog  with  Molly  by  his  side. 

At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  he  awoke  to  the 
fact  that  the  train  was  still  at  rest.  He  looked 
out  again  and  saw  nothing  except  the  rain,  the 
bog,  and  the  cottage.  This  time  he  opened  the 
window  and  put  out  his  head.  He  looked  up 
the  line  and  down  it.  There  was  no  one  to  be 
seen. 

"The  signals,"  thought  Sir  James,  "must  be 
against  us.'* 

He  looked  again,  first  out  of  one  window,  then 


THE  STRIKE  BREAKER          33 

out  of  the  other.  There  was  no  signal  in  sight. 
The  single  line  of  railway  ran  unbroken  across 
the  bog,  behind  the  train  and  in  front  of  it.  Sir 
James,  puzzled,  and  a  little  wet,  drew  back  into 
his  compartment  and  shut  the  window.  He 
waited,  with  rapidly  growing  impatience,  for 
another  half  hour.  Nothing  happened.  Then 
he  saw  a  man  come  out  of  the  cottage  near  the 
line.  He  was  carrying  a  basket  in  one  hand  and 
a  teapot  in  the  other.  He  approached  the  train. 
He  came  straight  to  Sir  James'  compartment 
and  opened  the  door.  Sir  James  recognised  the 
engine  driver. 

"I  was  thinking,"  said  the  man,  "that  maybe 
your  honour  would  be  glad  of  a  cup  of  tea  and 
a  bit  of  bread.  I  am  sorry  there  is  no  butter,  but, 
sure,  butter  is  hard  to  come  by  these  times." 

He  laid  the  teapot  on  the  floor  and  put  the 
basket  on  the  seat  in  front  of  Sir  James.  He 
unpacked  it,  taking  out  a  loaf  of  home  made 
bread,  a  teacup,  a  small  bottle  of  milk,  and  a 
paper  full  of  sugar. 

"It's  not  much  to  be  offering  a  gentleman 
like  yourself,"  he  said,  "but  it's  the  best  we  have, 
and  seeing  that  you'll  be  here  all  night  and  best 
part  of  to-morrow  you'll  be  wanting  something 
to  eat." 


34  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

Sir  James  gasped  with  astonishment. 

"Here  all  night!"  he  said.  "Why  should  we 
be  here  all  night?  Has  the  engine  broken 
down?" 

"It  has  not,"  said  the  driver. 

"Then  you  must  go  on,"  said  Sir  James.  "I 
insist  on  your  going  on  at  once." 

The  driver  poured  out  a  cup  of  tea  and  handed 
it  to  Sir  James.  Then  he  sat  down  and  began 
to  talk  in  a  friendly  way. 

"Sure,  I  can't  go  on,"  he  said,  "when  I'm  out 
on  strike." 

Sir  James  was  so  startled  that  he  upset  a  good 
deal  of  tea.  As  Head  of  the  Ministry  of  Strikes 
he  naturally  had  great  experience,  but  he  had 
never  before  heard  of  a  solitary  engine  driver 
going  on  strike  in  the  middle  of  a  bog. 

"The  way  of  it  is  this,"  the  driver  went  on. 
"It  was  giv  out,  by  them  that  does  be  managing 
things  that  there  was  to  be  a  general  strike  on 
the  first  of  next  month.  You  might  have  heard 
of  that,  for  it  was  in  all  the  papers." 

Sir  James  had  heard  of  it.  It  was  the  subject 
of  many  notes  and  reports  in  his  Ministry. 

"But  this  isn't  the  1st  of  next  month,"  he  said. 

"It  is  not,"  said  the  driver.  "It's  no  more 
than  the  15th  of  this  month.  But  the  way  I'm 


THE  STRIKE  BREAKER         35 

placed  at  present,  it  wouldn't  be  near  so  con- 
venient to  me  to  be  striking  next  month  as  it  is 
to  be  striking  now.  There's  talk  of  moving  me 
off  this  line  and  putting  me  on  to  the  engine  that 
does  be  running  into  Athlone  with  the  night 
mail;  and  it's  to-morrow  the  change  is  to  be 
made.  Now  I  needn't  tell  you  that  Athlone's  a 
mighty  long  way  from  where  we  are  this  min- 
ute." 

He  paused  and  looked  at  Sir  James  with  an 
intelligent  smile. 

"My  wife  lives  in  the  little  house  beyond 
there,"  he  said  pointing  out  of  the  window  to 
the  cottage.  "And  what  I  said  to  myself  was 
this:  If  I  am  to  be  striking — which  I've  no  great 
wish  to  do — but  if  it  must  be — and  seemingly  it 
must — I  may  as  well  do  it  in  the  convenientest 
place  I  can;  for  as  long  as  a  man  strikes  the  way 
he's  told,  there  can't  be  a  word  said  to  him ;  and 
anyway  the  1st  of  next  month  or  the  15th  of  this 
month,  what's  the  differ?  Isn't  one  day  as  good 
as  another?" 

He  evidently  felt  that  his  explanation  was 
sufficient  and  satisfactory.  He  rose  to  his  feet 
and  opened  the  door  of  the  compartment 

"I'm  sorry  now,"  he  said,  "if  I'm  causing  any 
inconvenience  to  a  gentleman  like  yourself.  But 


86  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

what  can  I  do  ?  I  offered  to  leave  you  behind  at 
Finnabeg,  but  you  wouldn't  stay.  Anyway  the 
night's  warm  and  if  you  stretch  yourself  on  the 
seat  there  you  won't  know  it  till  morning,  and 
then  I'l  bring  you  over  another  cup  of  tea  so  as 
you  won't  be  hungry.  It's  a  twenty-four  hour 
strike,  so  it  is ;  and  I  won't  be  moving  on  out  of 
this  before  two  o'clock  or  may  be  half  past.  But 
what  odds?  The  kind  of  place  Dunadea  is,  a  day 
or  two  doesn't  matter  one  way  or  another,  and 
if  it  was  the  day  after  to-morrow  in  place  of 
to-morrow  you  got  there  it  would  be  the  same 
thing  in  the  latter  end." 

He  climbed  out  of  the  compartment  as  he 
spoke  and  stumped  back  through  the  rain  to  his 
cottage.  Sir  James  was  left  wondering  how  the 
people  of  Dunadea  managed  to  conduct  the 
business  of  life  when  one  day  was  the  same  to 
them  as  another  and  the  loss  of  a  day  now  and 
then  did  not  matter.  He  was  quite  certain  that 
the  loss  of  a  day  mattered  a  great  deal  to  him, 
his  position  being  what  it  was.  He  wondered 
what  Miss  Molly  Dennison  would  think  when  he 
failed  to  appear  at  her  father's  house  that  eve- 
ning for  dinner;  what  she  would  think — the 
speculation  nearly  drove  him  mad — when  he  did 
not  appear  in  the  church  next  day.  He  put  on 


THE  STRIKE  BREAKER         37 

an  overcoat,  took  an  umbrella  and  set  off  for  the 
engine  driver's  cottage.  He  had  to  climb  down 
a  steep  embankment  and  then  cross  a  wire  fence. 
He  found  it  impossible  to  keep  his  umbrella  up, 
which  distressed  him,  for  he  was  totally  unaccus- 
tomed to  getting  wet. 

He  found  the  driver,  who  seemed  to  be  a  good 
and  domesticated  man,  sitting  at  his  fireside  with 
a  baby  on  his  knee.  His  wife  was  washing 
clothes  in  a  corner  of  the  kitchen. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Sir  James,  "but  my  busi- 
ness in  Dunadea  is  very  important.  There  will 
be  serious  trouble  if " 

"There's  no  use  asking  me  to  go  on  with  the 
train,"  said  the  driver,  "for  I  can't  do  it.  I'd 
never  hear  the  last  of  it  if  I  was  to  be  a  blackleg." 

The  woman  at  the  washtub  looked  up. 

"Don't  be  talking  that  way,  Michael,"  she 
said,  "let  you  get  up  and  take  the  gentleman 
along  to  where  he  wants  to  go." 

"I  will  not,"  said  the  driver,  "I'd  do  it  if  I 
could  but  I  won't  have  it  said  that  I  was  the  one 
to  break  the  strike." 

It  was  very  much  to  the  credit  of  Sir  James 
that  he  recognised  the  correctness  of  the  engine 
driver's  position.  It  is  not  pleasant  to  be  held 
lip  twenty-four  hours  in  the  middle  of  a  bog.  It 


38  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

is  most  unpleasant  to  be  kept  away  from  church 
on  one's  own  wedding  day.  But  Sir  James 
knew  that  strikes  are  sacred  things,  far  more 
sacred  than  weddings.  He  hastened  to  agree 
with  the  engine  driver. 

"I  know  you  can't  go  on,"  he  said,  "nothing 
would  induce  me  to  ask  you  such  a  thing.  But 
perhaps " 

The  woman  at  the  washtub  did  not  reverence 
strikes  or  understand  the  labour  movement.  She 
spoke  abruptly. 

"Have  sense  the  two  of  you,"  she  said, 
"What's  to  hinder  you  taking  the  gentleman 
into  Dunadea,  Michael?" 

"It's  what  I  can't  do  nor  won't,"  said  her 
husband. 

"I'm  not  asking  you  to,"  said  Sir  James.  "I 
understand  strikes  thoroughly  and  I  know  you 
can't  do  it.  All  I  came  here  for  was  to  ask  you 
to  tell  me  where  I  could  find  a  telegraph  office." 

"There's  no  telegraphic  office  nearer  than 
Dunadea,"  said  the  engine  driver,  "and  that's 
seven  miles  along  the  railway  and  maybe  nine  if 
you  go  round  by  road." 

Sir  James  looked  out  at  the  rain.  It  was  thick 
and  persistent.  A  strong  west  wind  swept  it  in 
sheets  across  the  bog.  He  was  a  man  of  strong 


THE  STRIKE  BREAKER          39 

will  and  great  intellectual  power;  but  he  doubted 
if  he  could  walk  even  seven  miles  along  the  sleep- 
ers of  a  railway  line  against  half  a  gale  of  wind, 
wearing  on  his  feet  a  pair  of  patent  leather  boots 
bought  for  a  wedding. 

"Get  up  out  of  that,  Michael,"  said  the  woman, 
"And  off  with  you  to  Dunadea  with  the  gentle- 
man's telegram.  You'll  break  no  strike  by  doing 
that,  so  not  another  word  out  of  your  head." 

"I'll — I'll  give  you  ten  shillings  with  pleas- 
ure," said  Sir  James,  "I'll  give  you  a  pound  if 
you'll  take  a  message  for  me  to  Mr.  Dennison's 
house." 

"Anything  your  honour  chooses  to  give,"  said 
the  woman,  "will  be  welcome,  for  we  are  poor 
people.  But  it's  my  opinion  that  Michael  ought 
to  do  it  for  nothing  seeing  it's  him  and  his  old 
strike  that  has  things  the  way  they  are." 

"To  listen  to  you  talking,"  said  the  driver, 
"anybody  would  think  I'd  made  the  strike 
myself;  which  isn't  true  at  all,  for  there's  not  a 
man  in  the  country  that  wants  it  less  than  me." 

Sir  James  tore  a  leaf  from  his  note  book  and 
wrote  a  hurried  letter  to  Miss  Dennison.  The 
engine  driver  tucked  it  into  the  breast  pocket  of 
his  coat  and  trudged  away  through  the  rain.  His 
wife  invited  Sir  James  to  sit  by  the  fire.  He  did 


40  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

so  gladly,  taking  the  stool  her  husband  had  left. 
He  even,  after  a  short  time,  found  that  he  had 
taken  the  child  on  to  his  knee.  It  was  a  per- 
sistent child,  which  clung  round  his  legs  and 
stared  at  him  till  he  took  it  up.  The  woman 
went  on  with  her  washing. 

"What,"  said  Sir  James,  "is  the  immediate 
cause  of  this  strike?" 

"Cause!"  she  said.  "There's  no  cause,  only 
foolishness.  If  it  was  more  wages  they  were 
after  I  would  say  there  was  some  sense  in  it.  Or 
if  it  was  less  work  they  wanted  you  could  under- 
stand it — though  it's  more  work  and  not  less  the 
most  of  the  men  in  this  country  should  be  doing. 
But  the  strike  that's  in  it  now  isn't  what  you 
might  call  a  strike  at  all.  It's  a  demonstration, 
so  it  is.  That's  what  they're  saying  anyway. 
It's  a  demonstration  in  favour  of  the  Irish  Re- 
public, which  some  of  them  play-boys  is  after 
getting  up  in  Dublin.  The  Lord  save  us,  would 
nothing  do  them  only  a  republic?" 

Two  hours  later  Sir  James  went  back  to  his 
railway  carriage.  He  had  listened  with  interest 
to  the  opinions  of  the  engine  driver's  wife  on 
politics  and  the  Labour  Movement.  He  was 
convinced  that  a  separate  and  independent  Min- 
istry of  Strikes  ought  to  be  established  in  Dub- 


THE  STRIKE  BREAKER          41 

lin.  His  own  office  was  plainly  incapable  of 
dealing  with  Irish  conditions.  He  took  from  his 
bag  a  quantity  of  foolscap  paper  and  set  to  work 
to  draft  a  note  to  the  Prime  Minister  on  the 
needs  and  ideas  of  Irish  Labour.  He  became 
deeply  interested  in  his  work  and  did  not  notice 
the  passing  time. 

He  was  aroused  by  the  appearance  of  Miss 
Molly  Dennison  at  the  door  of  his  carriage.  Her 
hair,  which  was  blown  about  her  face,  was  ex- 
ceedingly wet.  The  water  dripped  from  her 
skirt  and  sleeves  of  her  jacket.  Her  complexion 
was  as  radiant  and  her  smile  as  brilliant  as  ever. 

"Hullo,  Jimmy,"  she  said.  "What  a  frowst! 
Fancy  sitting  in  that  poky  little  carriage  with 
both  windows  shut.  Get  up  and  put  away  your 
silly  old  papers.  If  you  come  along  at  once 
we'll  just  be  in  time  for  dinner." 

"How  did  you  get  here,"  said  Sir  James.  "I 
never  thought — .  In  this  weather — .  How  did 
you  get  here?" 

"On  my  bike,  of  course,"  said  Molly.  "Did 
a  regular  sprint.  Wind  behind  me.  Going  like 
blazes.  I'd  have  done  it  in  forty  minutes,  only 
Michael  ran  into  a  sheep  and  I  had  to  wait  for 
him." 

Sir  James  was  aware  that  the  engine  driver, 


42  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

grinning  broadly,  was  on  the  step  of  the  carriage 
behind  Molly. 

"I  lent  Michael  Dad's  old  bike,"  said  Molly, 
and  barring  the  accident  with  the  sheep,  he  came 
along  very  well." 

"What  I'm  thinking,"  said  the  driver,  "is  that 
you'll  never  be  able  to  fetch  back  against  the 
wind  that  does  be  in  it.  I  wouldn't  say  but  you 
might  do  it,  miss ;  but  the  gentleman  wouldn't  be 
fit.  He's  not  accustomed  to  the  like." 

"We're  not  going  to  ride  back,"  said  Molly. 
"You're  going  to  take  us  back  on  the  engine, 
with  the  two  bikes  in  the  tender,  on  top  of  the 
coal." 

"I  can't  do  it,  miss,"  said  the  driver.  "I  de- 
clare to  God  I'd  be  afraid  of  my  life  to  do  it. 
Didn't  I  tell  you  I  was  out  on  strike?" 

"We  oughtn't  to  ask  him,"  said  Sir  James. 
"Surely,  Molly,  you  must  understand  that.  It 
would  be  an  act  of  gross  disloyalty  on  his  part, 
disloyalty  to  his  union,  to  the  cause  of  labour. 

And  any  effort  we  make  to  persuade  him 

My  dear  Molly,  the  right  of  collective  bargain- 
ing which  lies  at  the  root  of  all  strikes " 

Molly  ignored  Sir  James  and  turned  to  the 
engine  driver. 

"Just  you  wait  here  five  minutes,"  she  said, 


THE  STRIKE  BREAKER         43 

"till  I  get  someone  who  knows  how  to  talk  to 
you." 

She  jumped  out  of  the  carriage  and  ran  down 
the  railway  embankment.  Sir  James  and  the 
engine  driver  watched  her  anxiously.  "I 
wouldn't  wonder,"  said  Michael,  "but  it  might 
be  my  wife  she's  after." 

He  was  quite  right.  Five  minutes  later, 
Molly  and  the  engine  driver's  wife  were  climb- 
ing the  embankment  together. 

"I  don't  see,"  said  Sir  James,  "what  your  wife 
has  to  do  with  the  matter." 

"By  this  time  to-morrow,"  said  Michael,  "you 
will  see;  if  so  be  you're  married  by  then,  which 
is  what  Miss  Molly  said  you  will  be." 

His  wife,  with  Molly  after  her,  climbed  into 
the  carriage. 

"Michael,"  she  said,  "did  the  young  lady  tell 
you  she's  to  be  married  to-morrow?" 

"She  did  tell  me,"  he  said,  "and  I'm  sorry  for 
her.  But  what  can  I  do?  If  I  was  to  take  that 
engine  into  Dunadea  they'd  call  me  a  blackleg 
the  longest  day  ever  I  lived." 

"I'll  call  you  something  a  mighty  deal  worse 
if  you  don't,"  said  his  wife.  "You  and  your 
strikes!  Strikes,  Moyah!  And  a  young  lady 
wanting  to  be  married!" 


44  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

Michael  turned  apologetically  to  Sir  James. 

"Women  does  be  terrible  set  on  weddings,'* 
he  said,  "and  that's  a  fact." 

"That'll  do  now,  Michael,"  said  Molly;  "stop 
talking  and  put  the  two  bikes  on  the  tender,  and 
poke  up  your  old  fires  or  what  ever  it  is  you  do  to 
make  your  engine  go." 

"Molly,"  said  Sir  James,  when  Michael  and 
his  wife  had  left  the  carriage,  "I've  drawn  up  a 
note  for  the  Prime  Minister  advising  the  estab- 
lishment of  a  special  Ministry  of  Strikes  for  Ire- 
land. I  feel  that  the  conditions  in  this  country 
are  so  peculiar  that  our  London  office  cannot 
deal  with  them.  I  think  perhaps  I'd  better  sug- 
gest that  he  should  put  you  at  the  head  of  the 
new  office." 

"Your  visit  to  Ireland  is  doing  you  good  al- 
ready," said  Molly.  "You're  developing  a  sense 
of  humour." 


Ill 

THE  FACULTY  OF  MEDICINE 

DR.  FARELLY,  Medical  Officer  of 
Dunailin,  volunteered  for  service  with 
the  R.A.M.C.  at  the  beginning  of  the 
war.  He  had  made  no  particular  boast  of  pa- 
triotism. He  did  not  even  profess  to  be  keenly 
interested  in  his  profession  or  anxious  for  wider 
experience.  He  said,  telling  the  simple  truth, 
that  life  at  Dunailin  was  unutterably  dull,  and 
that  he  welcomed  war — would  have  welcomed 
worse  things — for  the  sake  of  escaping  a  monot- 
ony which  was  becoming  intolerable. 

The  army  authorities  accepted  Dr.  Farelly. 
The  local  Board  of  Guardians,  which  paid  him 
a  salary  of  £200  a  year,  agreed  to  let  him  go  on 
the  condition  that  he  provided  a  duly  qualified 
substitute  to  do  his  work  while  he  was  away. 
There  a  difficulty  faced  Dr.  Farelly.  Duly 
qualified  medical  men,  willing  to  take  up  tem- 
porary jobs,  are  not  plentiful  in  war  time.  And 
the  job  he  had  to  offer — Dr.  Farelly  was  pain- 

45 


46  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

fully  conscious  of  the  fact — was  not  a  very  at- 
tractive one. 

Dunailin  is  a  small  town  in  Western  Con- 
naught,  seven  miles  from  the  nearest  railway 
station.  It  possesses  a  single  street,  straggling 
and  very  dirty,  a  police  barrack,  a  chapel,  which 
seems  disproportionately  large,  and  seven  shops. 
One  of  the  shops  is  also  the  post  office.  Another 
belongs  to  John  Conerney,  the  butcher.  The 
remaining  five  are  public  houses,  doing  their 
chief  business  in  whisky  and  porter,  but  selling, 
as  side  lines,  farm  seeds,  spades,  rakes,  hoes, 
stockings,  hats,  blouses,  ribbons,  flannelette, 
men's  suits,  tobacco,  sugar,  tea,  postcards,  and 
sixpenny  novels.  The  chief  inhabitants  of  the 
town  are  the  priest,  a  benevolent  but  elderly 
man,  who  lives  in  the  presbytery  next  the  large 
chapel;  Sergeant  Rahilly,  who  commands  the 
six  members  of  the  Royal  Irish  Constabulary 
and  lives  in  the  barrack;  and  Mr.  Timothy 
Flanagan,  who  keeps  the  largest  shop  in  the 
town  and  does  a  bigger  business  than  anyone  else 
in  porter  and  whisky. 

Dr.  Farelly,  standing  on  his  doorstep  with  his 
pipe  in  his  mouth,  looked  up  and  down  the 
street.  He  was  more  than  ever  convinced  that 
it  might  be  very  difficult  to  get  a  doctor  to  go 


THE  FACULTY  OF  MEDICINE    47 

to  Dunailin,  and  still  harder  to  get  one  to  stay. 
The  town  lay,  to  all  appearance,  asleep  under 
the  blaze  of  the  noonday  August  sun.  John 
Conerney's  greyhounds,  five  of  them,  were 
stretched  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  confident 
that  they  would  be  undisturbed.  Sergeant  Ra- 
hilly  sunned  himself  on  a  bench  outside  the  bar- 
rack door,  and  Mr.  Flanagan  sat  in  a  room  be- 
hind his  shop  nodding  over  the  ledger  in  which 
his  customers'  debts  were  entered.  Dr.  Farelly 
sighed.  He  had  advertised  for  a  doctor  to  take 
his  place  in  all  the  likeliest  papers,  and  had  not 
been  rewarded  by  a  single  answer.  He  was  be- 
ginning to  think  that  he  must  either  resign  his 
position  at  Dunailin  or  give  up  the  idea  of  war 
service. 

At  half -past  twelve  the  town  stirred  in  its 
sleep  and  partially  awoke.  Paddy  Doolan,  who 
drove  the  mail  cart,  arrived  from  Derrymore. 
Dr.  Farelly  strolled  down  to  the  post  office, 
seeking,  but  scarcely  hoping  for,  a  letter  in  reply 
to  his  advertisements.  He  was  surprised  and 
very  greatly  pleased  when  the  postmistress 
handed  him  a  large  envelope,  fat  and  bulging, 
bearing  a  Manchester  postmark.  The  moment 
he  opened  it  Dr.  Farelly  knew  that  he  had  got 
what  he  wanted,  an  application  for  the  post  he 


48  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

had  to  offer.  He  took  out,  one  after  another, 
six  sheets  of  nicely-printed  matter.  These  were 
testimonials  signed  by  professors,  tutors,  sur- 
geons, and  doctors,  all  eloquent  about  the  knowl- 
edge, skill,  and  personal  integrity  of  one  The- 
ophilus  Lovaway.  Dr.  Farelly  stuffed  these  into 
his  pocket.  He  had  often  written  testimonials 
himself — in  Ireland  everyone  writes  them  in 
scores — and  he  knew  precisely  what  they  were 
worth.  He  came  at  last  to  a  letter,  very  neatly 
typewritten.  It  began  formally: 

"DEAH  SIE — I  beg  to  offer  myself  as  a  candi- 
date for  the  post  of  medical  officer,  temporary, 
for  the  town  and  district  of  Dunailin,  on  the 
terms  of  your  advertisement  in  The  British 
Medical  Journal/' 

Dr.  Farelly,  like  the  Etruscans  in  Macaulay's 
poem,  "could  scare  forbear  to  cheer."  He 
walked  jauntily  back  to  his  house,  relit  his  pipe 
and  sat  down  to  read  the  rest  of  the  letter. 

Theophilus  Lovaway  was  apparently  a  garru- 
lous person.  He  had  covered  four  sheets  with 
close  typescript.  He  began  by  stating  that  he 
was  only  just  qualified  and  had  never  practised 
anywhere.  He  hoped  that  Dr.  Farelly  would 
not  consider  his  want  of  experience  a  disqualifi- 
cation. Dr.  Farelly  did  not  care  in  the  least. 


THE  FACULTY  OF  MEDICINE    49 

If  Theophilus  Lovaway  was  legally  qualified  to 
write  prescriptions,  nothing  else  mattered.  The 
next  three  paragraphs  of  the  letter — and  they 
were  all  long — described,  in  detail,  the  condition 
of  Lovaway's  health.  He  suffered,  it  appeared, 
from  a  disordered  heart,  weak  lungs,  and  dys- 
pepsia. But  for  these  misfortunes,  the  letter 
went  on,  Theophilus  would  have  devoted  himself 
to  the  services  of  his  country  in  her  great  need. 
Dr.  Farelly  sniffed.  He  had  a  prejudice  against 
people  who  wrote  or  talked  in  that  way.  He  be- 
gan to  feel  less  cheerful.  Theophilus  might 
come  to  Dunailin.  It  was  very  doubtful  whether 
he  would  stay  there  long,  his  lungs,  heart,  and 
stomach  being  what  they  were. 

The  last  half  of  the  letter  was  painfully  dis- 
concerting. Two  whole  pages  were  devoted  to 
an  explanation  of  the  writer's  wish  to  spend 
some  time  in  the  west  of  Ireland.  Theophilus 
Lovaway  had  managed,  in  the  middle  of  his  pro- 
fessional reading,  to  study  the  literature  of  the 
Irish  Renaissance.  He  had  fallen  deeply  in  love 
with  the  spirit  of  the  Celtic  peasantry.  He  de- 
scribed at  some  length  what  he  thought  that 
spirit  was.  "Tuned  to  the  spiritual"  was  one  of 
the  phrases  he  used.  "Desire-compelling,  with 
the  elusiveness  of  the  rainbow's  end,"  was  an- 


50  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

other.  Dr.  Farelly  grew  despondent.  If  Theo- 
philus  expected  life  in  Dunailin  to  be  in  the  least 
like  one  of  Mr.  Yeats'  plays,  he  was  doomed  to  a 
bitter  disappointment  and  would  probably  leave 
the  place  in  three  weeks. 

But  Dr.  Farelly  was  not  going  to  give  up 
hope  without  a  struggle.  He  put  the  letter  in 
his  pocket  and  walked  across  the  road  to 
Timothy  Flanagan's  shop. 

"Flanagan,"  he  said,  "I've  got  a  man  to  take 
on  my  job  here." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it,  doctor,"  said  Flanagan. 
"It  would  be  a  pity  now  if  something  was  to 
interfere  with  you,  and  you  wanting  to  be  off 
massacring  the  Germans.  If  the  half  of  what's 
in  the  papers  is  true,  its  massacring  or  worse 
them  fellows  want." 

"The  trouble  is,"  said  Dr.  Farelly,  "that  the 
man  I've  got  may  not  stay." 

"Why  wouldn't  he  stay?  Isn't  Dunailin  as 
good  a  place  to  be  in  as  any  other?  Any  sensible 
man " 

"That's  just  it,"  said  Dr.  Farelly.  "I'm  not 
at  all  sure  that  this  is  a  sensible  man.  Just  listen 
to  this." 

He  read  aloud  the  greater  part  of  the  letter. 

"Now  what  do  you  think  of  the  man  who 


THE  FACULTY  OF  MEDICINE    51 

wrote  that?"  he  asked;  "what  kind  of  fellow 
would  you  say  he  was?" 

"I'd  say,"  said  Flanagan,  "that  he's  a  simple, 
innocent  kind  of  man;  but  I  wouldn't  say  there 
was  any  great  harm  in  him." 

"I'm  very  much  afraid,"  said  Dr.  Farelly, 
"that  he's  too  simple  and  innocent.  That's  the 
first  thing  I  have  against  him.  Look  here  now, 
Flanagan,  if  you  or  anyone  else  starts  filling  this 
young  fellow  up  with  whisky — it  will  be  an  easy 
enough  thing  to  do,  and  I  don't  deny  that  it'll 
be  a  temptation.  But  if  you  do  it  you'll  have  his 
mother  or  his  aunt  or  someone  over  here  to  fetch 
him  home  again.  That's  evidently  the  kind  of 
man  he  is.  And  if  I  lose  him  I'm  done,  for  I'll 
never  get  anyone  else." 

"Make  your  mind  easy  about  that,  doctor. 
Devil  the  drop  of  whisky  he'll  get  out  of  my  shop 
while  he's  here,  and  I'll  take  care  no  other  one 
will  let  him  have  a  bottle.  If  he  drinks  at  all 
it'll  be  the  stuff  he  brings  with  him  in  his  own 
portmanteau." 

"Good,"  said  Dr.  Farelly,  'Til  trust  you 
about  that.  The  next  point  is  his  health.  You 
heard  what  he  said  about  his  heart  and  his  lungs 
and  his  stomach." 


52  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

"He  might  die  on  us,"  said  Flanagan,  "and 
that's  a  fact." 

"Oh,  he'll  not  die.  That  sort  of  man  never 
does  die,  not  till  he's  about  ninety,  anyhow. 
But  it  won't  do  to  let  him  fancy  this  place  doesn't 
agree  with  him.  What  you've  got  to  do  is  to  see 
that  he  gets  a  proper  supply  of  good,  wholesome 
food,  eggs  and  milk,  and  all  the  rest  of  it." 

"If  there's  an  egg  in  the  town  he'll  get  it," 
said  Flanagan,  "and  I'll  speak  to  Johnny  Coner- 
ney  about  the  meat  that's  supplied  to  him.  You 
may  trust  me,  doctor,  if  that  young  fellow  dies 
in  Dunailin  it'll  not  be  for  want  of  food." 

"Thanks,"  said  Dr.  Farelly;  "and  keep  him 
cheerful,  Flanagan,  don't  let  him  mope.  That 
brings  me  to  the  third  point.  You  heard  what 
he  wrote  about  the  Irish  Renaissance  and  the 
Celtic  spirit?" 

"I  heard  it  right  enough,"  said  Flanagan, 
"but  I'm  not  sure  do  I  know  the  meaning  of  it." 

"The  meaning  of  it,"  said  Dr.  Farelly,  "is 
fairies,  just  plain,  ordinary  fairies.  That's  what 
he  wants,  and  I  don't  expect  he'll  settle  down 
contentedly  unless  he  finds  a  few." 

"Sure  you  know  yell  enough,  doctor,  that 
there's  no  fairies  in  these  parts.  I  don't  say 


THE  FACULTY  OF  MEDICINE    53 

there  mightn't  have  been  some  in  times  past,  but 
any  there  was  is  now  gone." 

"I  know  that,"  said  Dr.  Farelly,  "and  I'm 
not  asking  you  to  go  beating  thorn  bushes  in  the 
hopes  of  catching  one.  But  if  this  fellow,  The- 
ophilus  Lovaway — did  ever  you  hear  such  a 
name? — if  he  wants  fairies  he  must  hear  about 
them.  You'll  have  to  get  hold  of  a  few  people 
who  go  in  for  that  sort  of  thing.  Now  what 
about  Patsy  Doolan's  mother?  She's  old 
enough,  and  she  looks  like  a  witch  herself." 

"If  the  like  of  the  talk  of  Patsy  Doolan's 
mother  would  be  giving  him  is  any  use  I'll  see 
he's  satisfied.  That  old  woman  would  talk  the 
hind  leg  off  a  donkey  about  fairies  or  anything 
else  if  you  were  to  give  her  a  pint  of  porter,  and 
I'll  do  that.  I'll  give  it  to  her  regular,  so  I  will. 
I'd  do  more  than  that  for  you,  doctor,  for  you're 
a  man  I  like,  let  alone  that  you're  going  out  to 
foreign  parts  to  put  the  fear  of  God  into  them 
Germans,  which  is  no  more  than  they  deserve." 

Dr.  Farelly  felt  satisfied  that  Mr.  Flanagan 
would  do  his  best  for  Lovaway.  And  Mr. 
Flanagan  was  an  important  person.  As  the 
principal  publican  in  the  town,  the  chairman  of 
all  the  councils,  boards,  and  leagues  there  were, 
he  had  an  enormous  amount  of  influence.  But 


54  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

Dr.  Farelly  was  still  a  little  uneasy.  He  went 
over  to  the  police  barrack  and  explained  the 
situation  to  Sergeant  Rahilly.  The  sergeant 
readily  promised  to  do  all  he  could  to  make 
Dunailin  pleasant  for  the  new  doctor,  and  to 
keep  him  from  getting  into  mischief  or  trouble. 
Only  in  the  matter  of  Lovaway's  taste  for  Irish 
folk-lore  and  poetry  the  sergeant  refused  to 
promise  any  help.  He  was  quite  firm  about 
this. 

"It  wouldn't  do  for  the  police  to  be  mixed  up 
in  that  kind  of  work,"  he  said.  "Politics  are 
what  a  sergeant  of  police  is  bound  to  keep  out 
of." 

"But  hang  it  all,"  said  Dr.  Farelly,  "fairies 
aren't  politics." 

"They  may  or  they  may  not  be,"  said  the  ser- 
geant. "But  believe  me,  doctor,  the  men  that 
talks  about  them  things,  fairies  and  all  that,  is 
the  same  men  that's  at  the  bottom  of  all  the 
leagues  in  the  country,  and  it  wouldn't  do  for  me 
to  be  countenancing  them.  But  I'll  tell  you 
what  I'll  do  for  you  now,  doctor.  If  I  can't  get 
fairies  for  him  I'll  see  that  anything  that's  to  be 
had  in  the  district  in  the  way  of  a  fee  for  a  lunatic 
or  the  like  goes  to  the  young  fellow  you're  bring- 
ing here.  I'll  do  that,  and  if  there's  more  I  can 


THE  FACULTY  OF  MEDICINE    55 

do  you  can  reckon  on  me — barring  fairies  and 
politics  of  all  kinds." 

Mr.  Flanagan  and  Sergeant  Rahilly  were 
trustworthy  men.  In  a  good  cause  they  were 
prompt  and  energetic.  Flanagan  warned  the 
other  publicans  in  the  town  that  they  must  not 
supply  the  new  doctor  with  any  whisky.  He 
spoke  seriously  to  John  Conerney  the  butcher. 

"Good  meat,  now,  Johnny.  The  best  you 
have,  next  to  what  joints  you  might  be  supplying 
to  the  priest  or  myself.  He  has  a  delicate  stom- 
ach, the  man  that's  coming,  and  a  bit  of  braxy 
mutton  might  be  the  death  of  him." 

He  spoke  to  Paddy  Doolan  and  told  him  that 
his  old  mother  would  be  wanted  to  attend  on  the 
new  doctor  and  must  be  ready  whenever  she  was 
called  for. 

"Any  old  ancient  story  she  might  know,"  he 
said,  "about  the  rath  beyond  on  the  hill,  or  the 
way  they  shot  the  bailiff  on  the  bog  in  the  bad 
times,  or  about  it's  not  being  lucky  to  meet  a 
red-haired  woman  in  the  morning,  anything  at 
all  that  would  be  suitable  she'll  be  expected  to 
tell.  And  if  she  does  what  she's  bid  there'll  be 
a  drop  of  porter  for  her  in  my  house  whenever 
she  likes  to  call  for  it." 

Sergeant  Rahilly  talked  in  a  serious  but  vague 


56  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

way  to  everyone  he  met  about  the  importance  of 
treating  Dr.  Lovaway  well,  and  the  trouble 
which  would  follow  any  attempt  to  rob  or  ill-use 
him. 

Before  Dr.  Lovaway  arrived  his  reputation 
was  established  in  Dunailin.  It  was  generally 
believed  that  he  was  a  dipsomaniac,  sent  to  the 
west  of  Ireland  to  be  cured.  It  was  said  that 
he  was  very  rich  and  had  already  ordered  huge 
quantities  of  meat  from  Johnny  Conerney.  He 
was  certainly  of  unsound  mind :  Mr.  Flanagan's 
hints  about  fairies  settled  that  point.  He  was 
also  a  man  of  immense  influence  in  Government 
circles,  perhaps  a  near  relation  of  the  Lord-Lieu- 
tenant: Sergeant  Rahilly's  way  of  speaking  con- 
vinced everyone  of  that.  The  people  were,  natu- 
rally, greatly  interested  in  their  new  doctor,  and 
were  prepared  to  give  him  a  hearty  welcome. 

His  arrival  was  a  little  disappointing.  He 
drove  from  the  station  at  Derrymore  on  Paddy 
Doolan's  car,  and  had  only  a  small  portmanteau 
with  him.  He  was  expected  to  come  in  a  motor 
of  his  own  with  a  vanload  of  furniture  behind 
him.  His  appearance  was  also  disappointing. 
He  was  a  young  man.  He  looked  so  very  young 
that  a  stranger  might  have  guessed  his  age  at 
eighteen.  He  wore  large,  round  spectacles,  and 


THE  FACULTY  OF  MEDICINE   57 

had  pink,  chubby  cheeks.  In  one  respect  only 
did  he  come  up  to  popular  expectation.  He  was 
plainly  a  young  man  of  feeble  intellect,  for  he 
allowed  Paddy  Doolan  to  overcharge  him  in  the 
grossest  way. 

"Thanks  be  to  God,"  said  Sergeant  Rahilly 
to  Mr.  Flanagan,  "it's  seldom  anyone's  sick  in 
this  place.  I  wouldn't  like  to  be  trusting  the 
likes  of  that  young  fellow  very  far.  But  what 
odds?  We've  got  to  do  the  best  we  can  for  him, 
and  my  family's  healthy,  anyway." 

Fate  has  a  nasty  trick  of  hitting  us  just  where 
we  feel  most  secure.  The  sergeant  himself  was 
a  healthy  man.  His  wife  did  not  know  what  it 
was  to  be  ill.  Molly,  his  twelve-year  old  daugh- 
ter, was  as  sturdy  a  child  as  any  in  the  town. 
But  Molly  had  an  active  mind  and  an  enterpris- 
ing character.  On  the  afternoon  of  Doctor 
Lovaway's  arrival,  her  mother,  father,  and  most 
other  people  being  fully  occupied,  she  made  her 
way  round  the  back  of  the  village,  climbed  the 
wall  of  the  doctor's  garden  and  established  her- 
self in  an  apple  tree.  She  took  six  other  chil- 
dren with  her.  There  was  an  abundant  crop  of 
apples,  but  they  were  not  nearly  ripe.  Molly 
ate  until  she  could  eat  no  more.  The  other 


58  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

children,  all  of  them  younger  than  Molly,  stuffed 
themselves  joyfully  with  the  hard  green  fruit. 

At  eight  o'clock  that  evening  Molly  com- 
plained of  pains.  Her  mother  put  her  to  bed. 
At  half -past  eight  Molly's  pains  were  consider- 
ably worse  and  she  began  to  shriek.  Mrs.  Ra- 
hilly,  a  good  deal  agitated  by  the  violence  of  the 
child's  yells,  told  the  sergeant  to  gb  for  the  doc- 
tor. Sergeant  Rahilly  laid  down  his  newspaper 
and  his  pipe.  He  went  slowly  down  the  street 
towards  the  doctor's  house.  He  was  surprised  to 
hear  shrieks,  not  unlike  Molly's,  in  various 
houses  as  he  passed.  Mrs.  Conerney,  the  butch- 
er's wife,  rushed  out  of  her  door  and  told  the 
sergeant  that  her  little  boy,  a  child  of  nine,  was 
dying  in  frightful  agony. 

Mr.  Flanagan  was  standing  at  the  door  of  his 
shop.  He  beckoned  to  the  sergeant. 

"It's  lucky,"  he  said,  "things  happening  the 
way  they  have  on  the  very  first  night  of  the  new 
doctor  being  here." 

"I  don't  know  so  much  about  luck,"  said  Ser- 
geant Rahilly.  "What  luck?" 

"The  half  of  the  children  in  the  town  is  took 
with  it,"  said  Flanagan. 

"You  may  call  that  luck  if  it  pleases  you," 
said  the  sergeant.  "But  it's  not  my  notion  of 


THE  FACULTY  OF  MEDICINE   59 

luck.  My  own  Molly's  bellowing  like  a  young 
heifer,  and  Mrs.  Conerney's  boy  is  dying,  so  she 
tells  me.  If  that's  luck  I'd  rather  you  had  it 
than  me." 

"I'm  sorry  for  the  childer,"  said  Flanagan; 
"but  Mrs.  Doolan,  who's  in  the  shop  this  minute 
drinking  porter,  says  it'll  do  them  no  harm  if 
they're  given  a  sup  of  water  to  drink  out  of  the 
Holy  Well  beyond  Tubber  Neeve,  and  a  handful 
of  rowan  berries  laid  on  the  stomach  or  where- 
ever  else  the  pain  might  be." 

"Rowan  berries  be  damned,"  said  the  sergeant. 
"I'm  off  for  the  doctor;  not  that  I'm  expecting 
much  from  him.  A  young  fellow  with  a  face  like 
that!  I  wish  to  God  Dr.  Farelly  was  back  with 
us." 

"Doctors  is  no  use,"  said  Flanagan,  "neither 
one  nor  another,  if  it's  true  what  Mrs.  Doolan 
says." 

"And  what  does  Mrs.  Doolan  say?"  asked  the 
sergeant. 

"I'm  not  saying  I  believe  her,"  said  Flanagan, 
"and  I'm  not  asking  you  to  believe  her,  but  what 
she  says  is " 

He  whispered  in  the  sergeant's  ear.  The  ser- 
geant looked  at  him  bewildered. 

"Them  ones?"  he  said,  "them  ones?     Now 


60  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

what  might  you  and  Mrs.  Doolan  be  meaning 
by  that,  Timothy  Flanagan?" 

"Just  fairies,"  said  Flanagan.  "Mind  you, 
I'm  not  saying  I  believe  it." 

"Fairies  be  damned,"  said  the  sergeant. 

"They  may  be,"  said  Flanagan.  "I'm  not 
much  of  a  one  for  fairies  myself;  but  you'll  not 
deny,  sergeant  that  it  looks  queer,  all  the  chil- 
dren being  took  the  same  way  at  the  same  time. 
Anyhow,  whether  you  believe  what  Mrs.  Doolan 
says  or  not " 

"I  do  not  believe  it,"  said  the  sergeant.  "Not 
a  word  of  it." 

"You  needn't,"  said  Flanagan,  "I  don't  my- 
self. All  I  say  is  that  it's  lucky  a  thing  of  the 
sort  happening  the  very  first  evening  the  new 
doctor's  in  the  place.  It's  fairies  he's  after,  re- 
member that.  It's  looking  for  fairies  that 
brought  him  here.  Didn't  Dr.  Farelly  tell  me 
so  himself  and  tell  you?  Wasn't  Dr.  Farelly 
afraid  he  wouldn't  stay  on  account  of  fairies 
being  scarce  about  these  parts  this  long  time? 
And  now  the  place  is  full  of  them — according  to 
what  Mrs.  Doolan  says." 

Sergeant  Rahilly  heard,  or  fancied  he  heard, 
a  particularly  loud  shriek  from  Molly.  He  cer- 
tainly heard  the  wailing  of  Mrs.  Conerney  and 


THE  FACULTY  OF  MEDICINE  61 

the  agitated  cries  of  several  other  women.  He 
turned  from  Flanagan  without  speaking  another 
word  and  walked  straight  to  the  doctor's  house. 

Five  minutes  later  Dr.  Lovaway,  hatless  and 
wearing  a  pair  of  slippers  on  his  feet,  was  run- 
ning up  the  street  towards  the  barrack.  His  first 
case,  a  serious  one,  calling  for  instant  attention, 
had  come  to  him  unexpectedly.  Opposite  Flan- 
agan's shop  he  was  stopped  by  Mrs.  Doolan. 
She  laid  a  skinny,  wrinkled,  and  very  dirty  hand 
on  his  arm.  Her  shawl  fell  back  from  her  head, 
showing  a  few  thin  wisps  of  grey  hair.  Her  eyes 
were  bleary  and  red-rimmed,  her  breath  reeked 
of  porter. 

"Arrah,  doctor  dear,"  she  said,  "I'm  glad  to 
see  you,  so  I  am.  Isn't  it  a  grand  thing  now 
that  a  fine  young  man  like  you  would  be  want- 
ing to  sit  down  and  be  talking  to  an  old  woman 
like  myself,  that  might  be  your  mother — no,  but 
your  grandmother?" 

Dr.  Lovaway,  desperately  anxious  to  reach 
the  sergeant's  suffering  child,  tried  to  shake  off 
the  old  woman.  He  suspected  that  she  was 
drunk.  He  was  certain  that  she  was  extremely 
unpleasant.  The  suggestion  that  she  might  be 
his  mother  filled  him  with  loathing.  It  was  not 
any  pleasanter  to  think  of  her  as  a  grandmother. 


62  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

Mrs.  Doolan  clung  tightly  to  his  arm  with  both 
her  skinny  hands. 

Mr.  Flanagan  approached  them  from  behind; 
leaning  across  Lovaway's  shoulders,  he  whis- 
pered in  his  ear: 

"There's  not  about  the  place — there's  not 
within  the  four  seas  of  Ireland,  one  that  has  as 
much  knowledge  of  fairies  and  all  belonging  to 
them  as  that  old  woman." 

"Fairies!"  said  Lovaway.  "Did  you  say 

Surely  you  didn't  say  fairies?" 

"I  just  thought  you'd  be  pleased,"  said  Flana- 
gan, "and  it's  lucky,  so  it  is,  that  Mrs.  Doolan 
should  happen  to  be  in  the  town  to-night  of  all 
nights,  just  when  them  ones — the  fairies,  you 
know,  doctor — has  half  the  children  in  the  town 
took  with  pains  in  their  stomachs." 

Dr.  Lovaway  looked  round  him  wildly.  He 
supposed  that  Flanagan  must  be  mad.  He  had 
no  doubt  that  the  old  woman  was  drunk. 

"I've  seen  the  like  before,"  she  said,  leering 
up  into  Lovaway's  face.  "I've  seen  worse.  I've 
seen  a  strong  man  tying  himself  into  knots  with 
the  way  they  had  him  held,  and  there's  no  cure 
for  it  only " 

Lovaway  caught  sight  of  Sergeant  Rahilly. 
In  his  first  rush  to  reach  the  stricken  child  he  had 


THE  FACULTY  OF  MEDICINE   63 

left  the  sergeant  behind.  The  sergeant  was  a 
heavy  man  who  moved  with  dignity. 

"Take  this  woman  away,"  said  Lovaway. 
"Don't  let  her  hold  me." 

"Doctor,  darling,"  whined  Mrs.  Doolan, 
"don't  be  saying  the  like  of  that." 

"Biddy  Doolan,"  said  the  sergeant,  sternly, 
"will  you  let  go  of  the  doctor?  I'd  be  sorry  to 
arrest  you,  so  I  would,  but  arrested  you'll  be  if 
you  don't  get  along  home  out  of  that  and  keep 
quiet." 

Mrs.  Doolan  loosed  her  hold  on  the  doctor's 
arm,  but  she  did  not  go  home.  She  followed 
Lovaway  up  the  street,  moving,  for  so  old  a 
woman,  at  a  surprising  pace. 

"Doctor,  dear,"  she  said,  "don't  be  giving 
medicine  to  them  childer.  Don't  do  it  now. 
You'll  only  anger  them  that's  done  it,  and  it's  a 
terrible  thing  when  them  ones  is  angry." 

"Get  away  home  out  of  that,  Biddy  Doolan," 
said  the  sergeant. 

"Don't  be  hard  on  an  old  woman,  now,  ser- 
geant," said  Mrs.  Doolan.  "It's  for  your  own 
good  and  the  good  of  your  child  I'm  speaking. 
Doctor,  dear,  there's  no  cure  but  the  one.  A 
cup  of  water  from  the  well  of  Tubber  Neeve, 
the  same  to  be  drawn  up  in  a  new  tin  can  that 


64  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

never  was  used.  Let  the  child  or  the  man,  or  it 
might  be  the  cow,  or  whatever  it  is,  let  it  drink 
that,  a  cup  at  a  time,  and  let  you 

Lovaway  followed  by  the  sergeant,  entered  the 
barrack.  He  needed  no  guiding  to  the  room  in 
which  Molly  lay.  Her  shrieks  would  have  led 
a  blind  man  to  her  bedside. 

Mrs.  Doolan  was  stopped  at  the  door  by  a 
burly  constable.  She  shouted  her  last  advice  to 
the  doctor  as  he  climbed  the  stairs. 

"Let  you  take  a  handful  of  rowan  berries  and 
lay  them  on  the  stomach  or  wherever  the  pain 
might  be,  and  if  you  wrap  them  in  a  yellow  cloth 
it  will  be  better;  but  they'll  work  well  enough 
without  that,  only  not  so  quick." 

Driven  off  by  the  constable  Mrs.  Doolan  went 
back  to  Flanagan's  shop.  She  was  quite  calm 
and  did  not  any  longer  appear  to  be  the  worse 
for  the  porter  she  had  drunk. 

"You'll  give  me  another  sup,  now,  Mr.  Flana- 
gan," she  said.  "It's  well  I  deserve  it.  It's 
terrible  dry  work  talking  to  a  man  like  that  one 
who  won't  listen  to  a  word  you're  saying." 

Flanagan  filled  a  large  tumbler  with  porter 
and  handed  it  to  her. 

"Tell  me  this  now,  Mrs.  Doolan,"  he  said. 


THE  FACULTY  OF  MEDICINE   65 

"What's  the  matter  with  Molly  Rahilly  and  the 
rest  of  them?" 

"It's  green  apples,"  s*id  Mrs.  Doolan,  "green 
apples  that  they  ate  in  the  doctor's  garden. 
Didn't  I  see  the  little  lady  sitting  in  the  tree 
and  the  rest  of  the  childer  with  her?" 

Dr.  Lovaway  made  a  somewhat  similar  diag- 
nosis. He  spent  several  busy  hours  going  in 
and  out  of  the  houses  where  the  sufferers  lay. 
It  was  not  till  a  quarter  past  eleven  that  he  re- 
turned to  his  home  and  the  town  settled  down 
for  the  night.  At  half -past  eleven — long  after 
the  legal  closing  hour — Sergeant  Rahilly  was 
sitting  with  Mr.  Flanagan  in  the  room  behind 
the  shop.  A  bottle  of  whisky  and  a  jug  of  water 
were  on  the  table  in  front  of  them. 

"It's  a  queer  thing  now  about  that  doctor," 
said  Flanagan.  "After  what  Dr.  Farelly  said 
to  me  I  made  dead  sure  he'd  be  pleased  to  find 
fairies  about  the  place.  But  he  was  not.  When 
I  told  him  it  was  fairies  he  looked  like  a  man 
that  wanted  to  curse  and  didn't  rightly  know 
how.  But  sure  the  English  is  all  queer,  and  the 
time  you'd  think  you  have  them  pleased  is  the 
very  time  they'd  be  most  vexed  with  you." 


IV 

A  LUNATIC  AT  LARGE 

IT  was  Tuesday,  a  Tuesday  early  in  October. 
Dr.  Lovaway  finished  his  breakfast  quietly, 
conscious  that  he  had  a  long  morning  before 
him  and  nothing  particular  to  do.  Tuesday  is  a 
quiet  day  in  Dunailin;  Wednesday  is  market 
day  and  people  are  busy,  the  doctor  as  well  as 
everybody  else.  Young  women  who  come  into 
town  with  butter  to  sell  take  the  opportunity  of 
having  their  babies  vaccinated  on  Wednesday. 
Old  women,  with  baskets  on  their  arms,  find  it 
convenient  on  that  day  to  ask  the  doctor  for 
something  to  rub  into  knee-joints  where  rheu- 
matic pains  are  troublesome.  Old  men,  who 
have  ridden  into  town  on  their  donkeys,  consult 
the  doctor  about  chronic  coughs,  and  seek  bottles 
likely  to  relieve  "an  impression  on  the  chest." 

Fridays,  when  the  Petty  Sessions'  Court  sits, 
are  almost  as  busy.  Mr.  Timothy  Flanagan,  a 
magistrate  in  virtue  of  the  fact  that  he  is  Chair- 
man of  the  Urban  District  Council,  administers 
justice  of  a  rude  and  uncertain  kind  in  the  Court 

68 


A  LUNATIC  AT  LARGE          67 

House.  While  angry  litigants  are  settling  their 
business  there,  and  repentant  drunkards  are  pay- 
ing the  moderate  fines  imposed  on  them,  their 
wives  ask  the  doctor  for  advice  about  the  treat- 
ment of  whooping  cough  or  the  best  way  of 
treating  a  child  which  has  incautiously  stepped 
into  a  fire.  Fair  days,  which  occur  once  a  month, 
are  the  busiest  days  of  all.  Everyone  is  in  town 
on  fair  days,  and  every  kind  of  ailment  is 
brought  to  the  doctor.  Towards  evening  he  has 
to  put  stitches  into  one  or  two  cut  scalps  and 
sometimes  set  a  broken  limb.  On  Mondays  and 
Thursdays  the  doctor  sits  in  his  office  for  an  hour 
or  two  to  register  births  and  deaths. 

But  Tuesdays,  unless  a  fair  happens  to  fall 
on  Tuesday,  are  quiet  days.  On  this  particular 
Tuesday  Dr.  Lovaway  was  pleasantly  aware 
that  he  had  nothing  whatever  to  do  and  might 
count  on  having  the  whole  day  to  himself.  It 
was  raining  very  heavily,  but  the  weather  did  not 
trouble  him  at  all.  He  had  a  plan  for  the  day 
which  rain  could  not  mar. 

He  sat  down  at  his  writing  table,  took  from  a 
drawer  a  bundle  of  foolscap  paper,  fitted  a  new 
nib  to  his  pen  and  filled  his  ink  bottle.  He  be- 
gan to  write. 


68  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

"A  Study  of  the  Remarkable  Increase  of 
Lunacy  in  Rural  Connaught." 

The  title  looked  well.  It  would,  he  felt,  cer- 
tainly attract  the  attention  of  the  editor  of  The 
British  Medical  Journal. 

But  Dr.  Lovaway  did  not  like  it.  It  was  not 
for  the  editor  of  The  British  Medical  Journal, 
or  indeed,  for  a  scientific  public  that  he  wanted 
to  write.  He  started  fresh  on  a  new  sheet  of 
paper. 

"Lunacy  in  the  West  of  Ireland:  Its  Cause 
and  Cure." 

That  struck  him  as  the  kind  of  title  which 
would  appeal  to  a  philanthropist  out  to  effect  a 
social  reform  of  some  kind.  But  Dr.  Lovaway 
was  not  satisfied  with  it.  He  respected  re- 
formers and  was  convinced  of  the  value  of  their 
work,  but  his  real  wish  was  to  write  something 
of  a  literary  kind.  With  prodigal  extravagance 
he  tore  up  another  whole  sheet  of  foolscap  and 
began  again. 

"The  Passing  of  the  Gael.  Ireland's  Crowded 
Madhouses." 

He  purred  a  little  over  that  title  and  then  be- 
gan the  article  itself.  What  he  wanted  to  say 
was  clear  in  his  mind.  He  had  been  three  weeks 
in  Dunailin  and  he  had  spent  more  time  over 


A  LUNATIC  AT  LARGE  69 

lunatics  than  anything  else.  Almost  every  day 
he  found  himself  called  upon  by  Sergeant  Ra- 
hilly  to  "certify"  a  lunatic,  to  commit  some  un- 
fortunate person  with  diseased  intellect  to  an 
asylum.  Sometimes  he  signed  the  required  docu- 
ment. Often  he  hesitated,  although  he  was  al- 
ways supplied  by  the  sergeant  and  his  constables 
with  a  wealth  of  lurid  detail  about  the  dangerous 
and  homicidal  tendencies  of  the  patient.  Dr. 
Lovaway  was  profoundly  impressed. 

He  gave  his  whole  mind  to  the  consideration 
of  the  problem  which  pressed  on  him.  He  bal- 
anced theories.  He  blamed  tea,  inter-marriage, 
potatoes,  bad  whisky,  religious  enthusiasm,  and 
did  not  find  any  of  them  nor  all  of  them  together 
satisfactory  as  explanations  of  the  awful  facts. 
He  fell  back  finally  on  a  theory  of  race  de- 
cadence. Already  fine  phrases  were  forming 
themselves  in  his  mind:  "The  inexpressible 
beauty  of  autumnal  decay."  "The  exquisiteness 
of  the  decadent  efflorescence  of  a  passing  race." 

He  covered  a  sheet  of  foolscap  with  a  bare — 
he  called  it  a  detached — statement  of  the  facts 
about  Irish  lunacy.  He  had  just  begun  to  re- 
count his  own  experience  when  there  was  a  knock 
at  the  door.  The  housekeeper,  a  legacy  from 
Dr.  Farelly,  came  in  to  tell  him  that  Constable 


70  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

Malone  wished  to  speak  to  him.  Dr.  Lovaway 
left  his  MS.  with  a  sigh.  He  found  Constable 
Malone,  a  tall  man  of  magnificent  physique, 
standing  in  the  hall,  the  raindrops  dripping  from 
the  cape  he  wore. 

"The  sergeant  is  after  sending  me  round  to 
you,  sir,"  said  Constable  Malone,  "to  know 
would  it  be  convenient  for  you  to  attend  at 
Ballygran  any  time  this  afternoon  to  certify  a 
lunatic?" 

"Surely  not  another!"  said  Dr.  Lovaway. 

"It  was  myself  found  him,  sir,"  said  the  con- 
stable with  an  air  of  pride  in  his  achievement. 
"The  sergeant  bid  me  say  that  he'd  have  Patsy 
Doolan's  car  engaged  for  you,  and  that  him  and 
me  would  go  with  you  so  that  you  wouldn't  have 
any  trouble  more  than  the  trouble  of  going  to 
Ballygran,  which  is  an  out-of-the-way  place  sure 
enough,  and  it's  a  terrible  day." 

"Is  the  man  violent?"  asked  Dr.  Lovaway. 

By  way  of  reply  Constable  Malone  gave  a 
short  account  of  the  man's  position  in  life. 

"He's  some  kind  of  a  nephew  of  Mrs.  Finne- 
gan,"  he  said,  "and  they  call  him  Jimmy  Finne- 
gan,  though  Finnegan  might  not  be  his  proper 
name.  He  does  be  helping  Finnegan  himself 
about  the  farm,  and  they  say  he's  middling  use- 


A  LUNATIC  AT  LARGE          71 

ful.  But,  of  course,  now  the  harvest's  gathered, 
Finnegan  will  be  able  to  do  well  enough  without 
him  till  the  spring." 

This  did  not  seem  to  Dr.  Lovaway  a  sufficient 
reason  for  incarcerating  Jimmy  in  an  asylum. 

"But  is  he  violent?"  he  repeated.  "Is  he  dan- 
gerous to  himself  or  others?" 

"He  never  was  the  same  as  other  boys,"  said 
the  constable,  "and  the  way  of  it  with  fellows 
like  that  is  what  you  wouldn't  know.  He  might 
be  quiet  enough  to-day  and  be  slaughtering  all 
before  him  to-morrow.  And  what  Mrs.  Finne- 
gan says  is  that  she'd  be  glad  if  you'd  see  the 
poor  boy  to-day  because  she's  in  dread  of  what 
he  might  do  to-morrow  night?" 

"To-morrow  night!    Why  to-morrow  night?" 

"There's  a  change  in  the  moon  to-morrow," 
said  the  constable,  "and  they  do  say  that  the 
moon  has  terrible  power  over  fellows  that's  took 
that  way." 

Dr.  Lovaway,  who  was  young  and  trained  in 
scientific  methods,  was  at  first  inclined  to  argue 
with  Constable  Malone  about  the  effect  of  the 
moon  on  the  human  mind.  He  refrained,  re- 
flecting that  it  is  an  impious  thing  to  destroy  an 
innocent  superstition.  One  of  the  great  beauties 


72  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

of  Celtic  Ireland  is  that  it  still  clings  to  faiths 
forsaken  by  the  rest  of  the  world. 

At  two  o'clock  that  afternoon  Dr.  Lovaway 
took  his  seat  on  Patsy  Doolan's  car.  It  was  still 
raining  heavily.  Dr.  Lovaway  wore  an  overcoat 
of  his  own,  a  garment  which  had  offered  excel- 
lent protection  against  rainy  days  in  Manchester. 
In  Dunailin,  for  a  drive  to  Ballygran,  the  coat 
was  plainly  insufficient.  Mr.  Flanagan  hurried 
from  his  shop  with  a  large  oilskin  cape  taken 
from  a  peg  in  his  men's  outfitting  department. 
Constable  Malone,  under  orders  from  the  ser- 
geant, went  to  the  priest's  house  and  borrowed 
a  waterproof  rug.  Johnny  Conerney,  the  butch- 
er, appeared  at  the  last  moment  with  a  sou'- 
wester which  he  put  on  the  doctor's  head  and  tied 
under  his  chin.  It  would  not  be  the  fault  of  the 
people  of  Dunailin,  if  Lovaway,  with  his  weak 
lungs,  "died  on  them." 

Patsy  Doolan  did  not  contribute  anything  to 
the  doctor's  outfit,  but  displayed  a  care  for  his 
safety. 

"Take  a  good  grip  now,  doctor,"  he  said. 
"Take  a  hold  of  the  little  rail  there  beside  you. 
The  mare  might  be  a  bit  wild  on  account  of  the 
rain,  and  her  only  clipped  yesterday,  and  the 
road  to  Ballygran  is  jolty  in  parts." 


A  LUNATIC  AT  LARGE  73 

Sergeant  Rahilly  and  Constable  Malone  sat 
on  one  side  of  the  car,  Dr.  Lovaway  was  on  the 
other.  Patsy  Doolan  sat  on  the  driver's  seat. 
Even  with  that  weight  behind  her  the  mare 
proved  herself  to  be  "a  bit  wild."  She  went 
through  the  village  in  a  series  of  bounds,  shied 
at  everything  she  saw  in  the  road,  and  did  not 
settle  down  until  the  car  turned  into  a  rough 
track  which  led  up  through  the  mountains  to 
Ballygran.  Dr.  Lovaway  held  on  tight  with 
both  hands.  Patsy  Doolan,  looking  back  over 
his  left  shoulder,  spoke  words  of  encouragement. 

"It'll  be  a  bit  strange  to  you  at  first,  so  it  will," 
he  said.  "But  by  the  time  you're  six  months  in 
Dunailin  we'll  have  you  taught  to  sit  a  car,  the 
same  as  it  might  be  an  armchair  you  were  on." 

Dr.  Lovaway,  clinging  on  for  his  life  while 
the  car  bumped  over  boulders,  did  not  believe 
that  a  car  would  ever  become  to  him  as  an  arm- 
chair. 

Ballygran  is  a  remote  place,  very  difficult  of 
access.  At  the  bottom  of  a  steep  hill,  a  stream, 
which  seemed  a  raging  torrent  to  Dr.  Lovaway, 
flowed  across  the  road.  The  mare  objected  very 
strongly  to  wading  through  it.  Farther  on  the 
track  along  which  they  drove  became  precipitous 
and  more  stony  than  ever.  Another  stream, 


74  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

scorning  its  properly  appointed  course,  flowed 
down  the  road,  rolling  large  stones  with  it. 
Patsy  Doolan  was  obliged  to  get  down  and  lead 
the  mare.  After  persuading  her  to  advance 
twenty  yards  or  so  he  called  for  the  help  of  the 
police.  Sergeant  Rahilly  took  the  other  side  of 
the  mare's  head.  Constable  Malone  pushed  at 
the  back  of  the  car.  Dr.  Lovaway,  uncomfort- 
able and  rather  nervous,  wanted  to  get  down  and 
wade  too.  But  the  sergeant  would  not  hear  of 
this. 

"Let  you  sit  still,"  he  said.  "The  water's 
over  the  tops  of  my  boots,  so  it  is,  and  where's 
the  use  of  you  getting  a  wetting  that  might  be 
the  death  of  you?" 

"Is  it  much  farther?"  asked  Lovaway. 

The  sergeant  considered  the  matter. 

"It  might  be  a  mile  and  a  bit,"  he  said,  "from 
where  we  are  this  minute." 

The  mile  was  certainly  an  Irish  mile,  and  Dr. 
Lovaway  began  to  think  that  there  were  some 
things  in  England,  miles  for  instance,  which  are 
better  managed  than  they  are  in  Ireland.  "The 
bit"  which  followed  the  mile  belonged  to  a  sys- 
tem of  measurement  even  more  generous  than 
Irish  miles  and  acres. 

"I  suppose  now,"  said  the  sergeant,  "that  the 


A  LUNATIC  AT  LARGE          75 

country  you  come  from  is  a  lot  different  from 
this." 

He  had  taken  his  seat  again  on  the  car  after 
leading  the  mare  up  the  river.  He  spoke  in  a 
cheery,  conversational  tone.  Dr.  Lovaway 
thought  of  Manchester  and  the  surrounding  dis- 
trict, thought  of  trams,  trains,  and  paved  streets. 

"It  is  different,"  he  said,  "very  different  in- 
deed." 

Ballygran  appeared  at  last,  dimly  visible 
through  the  driving  rain.  It  was  a  miserable- 
looking  hovel,  roofed  with  sodden  thatch,  sur- 
rounded by  a  sea  of  mud.  A  bare-footed  woman 
stood  in  the  doorway.  She  wore  a  tattered  skirt 
and  a  bodice  fastened  across  her  breast  with  a 
brass  safety-pin.  Behind  her  stood  a  tall  man 
in  a  soiled  flannel  jacket  and  a  pair  of  trousers 
which  hung  in  a  ragged  fringe  round  his  ankles. 

"Come  in,"  said  Mrs.  Finnegan,  "come  in  the 
whole  of  yez.  It's  a  terrible  day,  sergeant,  and 
I  wonder  at  you  bringing  the  doctor  out  in  the 
weather  that  does  be  it  in.  Michael" — she 
.turned  to  her  husband  who  stood  behind  her — 
"let  Patsy  Doolan  be  putting  the  mare  into  the 
shed,  and  let  you  be  helping  him.  Come  in  now, 
doctor,  and  take  an  air  of  the  fire.  I'll  wet  a  cup 
of  tea  for  you,  so  I  will." 


76  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

Dr.  Lovaway  passed  through  a  low  door  into 
the  cottage.  His  eyes  gradually  became  accus- 
tomed to  the  gloom  inside  and  to  the  turf  smoke 
which  filled  the  room.  In  a  corner,  seated  on  a 
low  stool,  he  saw  a  young  man  crouching  over 
the  fire. 

"That's  him,"  said  Mrs.  Finnegan.  "That's 
the  poor  boy,  doctor.  The  sergeant  will  have 
been  telling  you  about  him." 

The  boy  rose  from  his  stool  at  the  sound  of  her 
voice. 

"Speak  to  the  gentleman  now,"  said  Mrs. 
Finnegan.  "Speak  to  the  doctor,  Jimmy 
alannah,  and  tell  him  the  way  you  are." 

"Your  honour's  welcome,"  said  Jimmy,  in  a 
thin,  cracked  voice.  "Your  honour's  welcome 
surely,  though  I  don't  mind  that  ever  I  set  eyes 
on  you  before." 

"Whisht  now,  Jimmy,"  said  the  sergeant. 
"It's  the  doctor  that's  come  to  see  you,  and  it's 
for  your  own  good  he's  come." 

"I  know  that,"  said  Jimmy,  "and  I  know  he'll 
be  wanting  to  have  me  put  away.  Well,  what 
must  be,  must  be,  if  it's  the  will  of  God,  and  if 
it's  before  me  it  may  as  well  be  now  as  any  other 
time." 

"You  see  the  way  he  is,"  said  the  sergeant. 


A  LUNATIC  AT  LARGE          77 

"And  I  have  the  papers  here  already  to  be 
signed." 

Dr.  Lovaway  saw,  or  believed  he  saw,  exactly 
how  things  were.  The  boy  was  evidently  of 
weak  mind.  There  was  little  sign  of  actual 
lunacy,  no  sign  at  all  of  violence  about  him. 
Mrs.  Finnegan  added  a  voluble  description  of 
the  case. 

"It  might  be  a  whole  day,"  she  said,  "and  he 
wouldn't  be  speaking  a  word,  nor  he  wouldn't 
seem  to  hear  if  you  speak  to  him,  and  he'd  just 
sit  there  by  the  fire  the  way  you  see  him  without 
he'd  be  doing  little  turns  about  the  place,  feeding 
the  pig,  or  mending  a  gap  in  the  wall  or  the  like. 
I  will  say  for  Jimmy,  the  poor  boy's  always 
willing  to  do  the  best  he  can." 

"Don't  be  troubling  the  doctor  now,  Mrs. 
Finnegan,"  said  the  sergeant.  "He  knows  the 
way  it  is  with  the  boy  without  your  telling  him. 
Just  let  the  doctor  sign  what  has  to  be  signed 
and  get  done  with  it.  Aren't  we  wet  enough  as 
it  is  without  standing  here  talking  half  the  day?" 

The  mention  of  the  wet  condition  of  the  party 
roused  Mrs.  Finnegan  to  action.  She  hung  a 
kettle  from  a  blackened  hook  in  the  chimney  and 
piled  up  turf  on  the  fire.  Jimmy  was  evidently 
quite  intelligent  enough  to  know  how  to  boil 


78  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

water.  He  took  the  bellows,  went  down  on  his 
knees,  and  blew  the  fire  diligently.  Mrs.  Finne- 
gan  spread  a  somewhat  dirty  tablecloth  on  a 
still  dirtier  table  and  laid  out  cups  and  saucers  on 
it. 

Dr.  Lovaway  was  puzzled.  The  boy  at  the 
fire  might  be,  probably  was,  mentally  deficient. 
He  was  not  a  case  for  an  asylum.  He  was  cer- 
tainly not  likely  to  become  violent  or  to  do  any 
harm  either  to  himself  or  anyone  else.  It  was 
not  clear  why  Mrs.  Finnegan,  who  seemed  a 
kindly  woman,  should  wish  to  have  him  shut  up. 
It  was  very  difficult  to  imagine  any  reason  for 
the  action  of  the  police  in  the  matter.  Constable 
Malone  had  discovered  the  existence  of  the  boy 
in  this  remote  place.  Sergeant  Rahilly  had 
taken  a  great  deal  of  trouble  in  preparing  papers 
for  his  committal  to  the  asylum,  and  had  driven 
out  to  Ballygran  on  a  most  inclement  day.  Dr. 
Lovaway  wished  he  understood  what  was  hap- 
pening. 

Finnegan,  having  left  Patsy  Doolan's  mare, 
and  apparently  Patsy  Doolan  himself  in  the 
shed,  came  into  the  house. 

Dr.  Lovaway  appealed  to  him. 

"It  doesn't  seem  to  me,"  he  said,  "that  this 
boy  ought  to  be  sent  to  an  asylum.  I  shall  be 


A  LUNATIC  AT  LARGE          79 

glad  to  hear  anything  you  have  to  tell  me  about 
him." 

"Well  now,"  said  Mr.  Finnegan,  "he's  a  good, 
quiet  kind  of  a  boy,  and  if  he  hasn't  too  much 
sense  there's  many  another  has  less." 

"That's  what  I  think,"  said  Dr.  Lovaway. 

Jimmy  stopped  blowing  the  fire  and  looked 
round  suddenly. 

"Sure,  I  know  well  you're  wanting  to  put  me 
away,"  he  said. 

"It's  for  your  own  good,"  said  the  sergeant. 

"It'll  do  him  no  harm  anyway,"  said  Finne- 
gan, "if  so  be  he's  not  kept  there." 

"Kept!"  said  the  sergeant.  "Is  it  likely  now 
that  they'd  keep  a  boy  like  Jimmy?  He'll  be 
out  again  as  soon  as  ever  he's  in.  I'd  say  now  a 
fortnight  is  the  longest  he'll  be  there." 

"I  wouldn't  like,"  said  Finnegan,  "that  he'd 
be  kept  too  long.  I'll  be  wanting  him  for  spring 
work,  but  I'm  willing  to  spare  him  from  this  till 
Christmas  if  you  like." 

Dr.  Lovaway,  though  a  young  man  and  con- 
stitutionally timid,  was  capable  of  occasional 
firmness. 

"I'm  certainly  not  going  to  certify  that  boy 
as  a  lunatic,"  he  said. 

"Come  now,  doctor,"  said  the  sergeant  per- 


80  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

suasively,  "after  coming  so  far  and  the  wet  day 
and  all.  What  have  you  to  do  only  to  put  your 
name  at  the  bottom  of  a  piece  of  paper?  And 
Jimmy's  willing  to  go.  Aren't  you,  Jimmy?'* 

"I'll  go  if  I'm  wanted  to  go,"  said  Jimmy. 

The  water  boiled.  Mrs.  Finnegan  was  spread- 
ing butter  on  long  slices  cut  from  a  home-baked 
loaf.  It  was  Jimmy  who  took  the  kettle  from 
the  hook  and  filled  the  teapot. 

"Mrs.  Finnegan,"  said  Dr.  Lovaway,  "why 
do  you  want  the  boy  put  into  an  asylum?" 

"Is  it  me  wanting  him  put  away?"  she  said. 
"I  want  no  such  thing.  The  notion  never  en- 
tered my  head,  nor  Michael's  either,  who's  been 
like  a  father  to  the  boy.  Only  when  Constable 
Malone  came  to  me,  and  when  it  was  a  matter  of 
pleasing  him  and  the  sergeant,  I  didn't  want  to 
be  disobliging,  for  the  sergeant  is  always  a  good 
friend  of  mine,  and  Constable  Malone  is  a  young 
man  I've  a  liking  for.  But  as  for  wanting  to  get 
rid  of  Jimmy!  Why  would  I?  Nobody'd 
grudge  the  bit  the  creature  would  eat,  and  there's 
many  a  little  turn  he'd  be  doing  for  me  about 
the  house." 

Mr.  Finnegan  was  hovering  in  the  back- 
ground, half  hidden  in  the  smoke  which  filled 


A  LUNATIC  AT  LARGE  81 

the  house.  He  felt  that  he  ought  to  support  his 
wife. 

"What  I  said  to  the  sergeant,"  he  said,  "no 
longer  ago  than  last  Friday  when  I  happened 
to  be  in  town  about  a  case  I  had  on  in  the  Petty 
Sessions'  Court — what  I  said  to  the  sergeant 
was  this:  'So  long  as  the  boy  isn't  kept  there 
too  long,  and  so  long  as  he's  willing  to  go '  " 

Jimmy,  seated  again  on  his  low  stool  before 
the  fire,  looked  up. 

"Amn't  I  ready  to  go  wherever  I'm  wanted?" 
he  said. 

"There  you  are  now,  doctor,"  said  the  ser- 
geant. "You'll  not  refuse  the  poor  boy  when 
he  wants  to  go?" 

"Sergeant,"  said  Dr.  Lovaway,  "I  can't,  I 
really  can't  certify  that  boy  is  a  lunatic.  I  don't 
understand  why  you  ask  me  to.  It  seems  to 


Poor  Lovaway  was  much  agitated.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  he  had  been  drawn  into  an  infamous 
conspiracy  against  the  liberty  of  a  particularly 
helpless  human  being. 

"I  don't  think  you  ought  to  have  asked  me  to 
come  here,"  he  said.  "I  don't  think  you  should 

have  suggested It  seems  to  me,  sergeant, 

that  your  conduct  has  been  most  reprehensible. 


82  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

I'm  inclined  to  think  I  ought  to  report  the  mat- 
ter to — to "  Dr.  Lovaway  was  not  quite 

sure  about  the  proper  place  to  which  to  send  a 
report  about  the  conduct  of  a  sergeant  of  the 
Irish  Police.  "To  the  proper  authorities,"  he 
concluded  feebly. 

"There,  there,"  said  the  sergeant,  soothingly, 
"we'll  say  no  more  about  the  matter.  I  wouldn't 
like  you  to  be  vexed,  doctor." 

But  Dr.  Lovaway,  having  once  begun  to 
speak  his  mind,  was  not  inclined  to  stop. 

"This  isn't  the  first  time  this  sort  of  thing  has 
happened,"  he  said.  "You've  asked  me  to  certify 
lunacy  in  some  very  doubtful  cases.  I  don't  un- 
derstand your  motives,  but " 

"Well,  well,"  said  the  sergeant,  "there's  no 
harm  done  anyway." 

Mrs.  Finnegan,  like  all  good  women,  was 
anxious  to  keep  the  peace  among  the  men  under 
her  roof. 

"Is  the  tea  to  your  liking,  doctor,"  she  said, 
"or  will  I  give  you  a  taste  more  sugar  in  it? 
I'm  a  great  one  for  sugar  myself,  but  they  tell 
me  there's  them  that  drinks  tea  with  ne'er  a 
grain  of  sugar  in  it  at  all.  They  must  be  queer 
people  that  do  that." 

She  held  a  spoon,  heaped  up  with  sugar,  over 


A  LUNATIC  AT  LARGE          83 

the  doctor's  cup  as  she  spoke.  He  was  obliged  to 
stop  lecturing  the  sergeant  in  order  to  convince 
her  that  his  tea  was  already  quite  sweet  enough. 
It  was,  indeed,  far  too  sweet  for  his  taste,  for  he 
was  one  of  those  queer  people  whose  tastes  Mrs. 
Finnegan  could  not  understand. 

The  drive  home  ought  to  have  been  in  every 
way  pleasanter  than  the  drive  out  to  Ballygran. 
Patsy  Doolan's  mare  was  subdued  in  temper ;  so 
docile,  indeed,  that  she  allowed  Jimmy  to  put  her 
between  the  shafts.  She  made  no  attempt  to 
stand  on  her  hind  legs,  and  did  not  shy  even  at 
a  young  pig  which  bolted  across  the  road  in  front 
of  her.  Dr.  Lovaway  could  sit  on  his  side  of  the 
car  without  holding  on.  The  rain  had  ceased 
and  great  wisps  of  mist  were  sweeping  clear  of 
the  hilltops,  leaving  fine  views  of  grey  rock  and 
heather-clad  slopes.  But  Dr.  Lovaway  did  not 
enjoy  himself.  Being  an  Englishman  he  had  a 
strong  sense  of  duty,  and  was  afflicted  as  no 
Irishman  ever  is  by  a  civic  conscience.  He  felt 
that  he  ought  to  bring  home  somehow  to  Ser- 
geant Rahilly  a  sense  of  the  iniquity  of  trying  to 
shut  up  sane,  or  almost  sane,  people  in  lunatic 
asylums.  Being  of  a  gentle  and  friendly  nature 
he  hated  making  himself  unpleasant  to  anyone, 


84  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

especially  to  a  man  like  Sergeant  Rahilly,  who 
had  been  very  kind  to  him. 

The  path  of  duty  was  not  made  any  easier  to 
him  by  the  behaviour  of  the  sergeant.  Instead 
of  being  overwhelmed  by  a  sense  of  discovered 
guilt,  the  police,  both  Rahilly  and  Constable  Ma- 
lone,  were  pleasantly  chatty,  and  evidently  bent 
on  making  the  drive  home  as  agreeable  as  pos- 
sible for  the  doctor.  They  told  him  the  names 
of  the  hills  and  the  more  distant  mountains. 
They  showed  the  exact  bank  at  the  side  of  the 
road  from  behind  which  certain  murderous  men 
had  fired  at  a  land  agent  in  1885.  They  ex- 
plained the  route  of  a  light  railway  which  a  for- 
gotten Chief  Secretary  had  planned  but  had 
never  built  owing  to  change  of  Government  and 
his  loss  of  office.  Not  one  word  was  said  about 
Jimmy,  or  lunatics,  or  asylums.  It  was  with 
great  difficulty  that  Dr.  Lovaway  succeeded  at 
last  in  breaking  in  on  the  smooth  flow  of  chatty 
reminiscences.  But  when  he  did  speak  he  spoke 
strongly.  As  with  most  gentle  and  timid  men, 
his  language  was  almost  violent  when  he  had 
screwed  himself  up  to  the  point  of  speaking  at 
all. 
The  two  policemen  listened  to  all  he  said  with 


A  LUNATIC  AT  LARGE          85 

the  utmost  good  humour.  Indeed,  the  sergeant 
supported  him. 

"You  hear  what  the  doctor's  saying  to  you, 
Constable  Malone,"  he  said. 

"I  do,  surely,"  said  the  constable. 

"Well,  I  hope  you'll  attend  to  it,"  said  the  ser- 
geant, "and  let  there  be  no  more  of  the  sort  of 
work  that  the  doctor's  complaining  of." 

"But  I  mean  you  too,  sergeant,"  said  Dr. 
Lovaway.  "You're  just  as  much  to  blame  as 
the  constable.  Indeed  more,  for  you're  his  su- 
perior officer." 

"I  know  that,"  said  the  sergeant;  "I  know 
that  well.  And  what's  more,  I'm  thankful  to 
you,  doctor,  for  speaking  out  what's  in  your 
mind.  Many  a  one  wouldn't  do  it.  And  I  know 
that  every  word  you've  been  saying  is  for  my 
good  and  for  the  good  of  Constable  Malone, 
who's  a  young  man  yet  and  might  improve  if 
handled  right.  That's  why  I'm  thanking  you, 
doctor,  for  what  you've  said." 

When  Solomon  said  that  a  soft  answer  turneth 
away  wrath  he  understated  a  great  truth.  A 
soft  answer,  if  soft  enough,  will  deflect  the  stroke 
of  the  sword  of  justice.  Dr.  Lovaway,  though 
his  conscience  was  still  uneasy,  could  say  no 
more.  He  felt  that  it  was  totally  impossible  to 


86  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

report  Sergeant  Rahilly's  way  of  dealing  with 
lunatics  to  the  higher  authorities. 

That  night  Sergeant  Rahilly  called  on  Mr. 
Flanagan,  going  into  the  house  by  the  back  door, 
for  the  hour  was  late.  He  chose  porter  rather 
than  whisky,  feeling  perhaps  that  his  nerves 
needed  soothing  and  that  a  stronger  stimulant 
might  be  a  little  too  much  for  him.  After  finish- 
ing a  second  bottle  and  opening  a  third,  he  spoke. 

"I'm  troubled  in  my  mind,"  he  said,  "over  this 
new  doctor.  Here  I  am  doing  the  best  I  can  for 
him  ever  since  he  came  to  the  town,  according 
to  what  I  promised  Dr.  Farelly." 

"]STo  man,"  said  Flanagan,  "could  do  more 
than  what  you've  done.  Everyone  knows  that." 

"I've  set  the  police  scouring  the  country,"  said 
the  sergeant,  "searching  high  and  low  and  in  and 
out  for  anyone,  man  or  woman,  that  was  the 
least  bit  queer  in  the  head.  They've  worked 
hard,  so  they  have,  and  I've  worked  hard  my- 
self." 

"No  man  harder,"  said  Flanagan. 

"And  everyone  we  found,"  said  the  Sergeant, 
"was  a  guinea  into  the  doctor's  pocket.  A 
guinea,  mind  you,  that's  the  fee  for  certifying  a 
lunatic,  and  devil  a  penny  either  I  or  the  con- 
stables get  out  of  it." 


A  LUNATIC  AT  LARGE  87 

"Nor  you  wouldn't  be  looking  for  it,  sergeant. 
I  know  that." 

"I  would  not.  And  I'm  not  complaining  of 
getting  nothing.  But  it's  damned  hard  when 
the  doctor  won't  take  what's  offered  to  him, 
when  we've  had  to  work  early  and  late  to  get  it 
for  him.  Would  you  believe  it  now,  Mr.  Flana- 
gan, he's  refused  to  certify  half  of  the  ones  we've 
found  for  him?" 

"Do  you  tell  me  that?"  said  Flanagan. 

"Throwing  good  money  away,"  said  the  ser- 
geant ;  "and  to-day,  when  I  took  him  to  see  that 
boy  that  does  be  living  in  Finnegan's,  which 
would  have  put  two  guineas  into  his  pocket,  on 
account  of  being  outside  his  own  district,  instead 
of  saying  'thank  you'  like  any  ordinary  man 
would,  nothing  would  do  him  only  to  be  cursing 
and  swearing.  'It's  a  crime,'  says  he,  'and  a 
scandal,'  says  he,  'and  it's  swearing  away  the 
liberty  of  a  poor  man,'  says  he;  and  more  to 
that.  Now  I  ask  you,  Mr.  Flanagan,  where's 
the  crime  and  where's  the  scandal?" 

"There's  none,"  said  Flanagan.  "What  harm 
would  it  have  done  the  lad  to  be  put  away  for  a 
bit?" 

"That's  what  I  said  to  the  doctor.  What's 
more,  they'd  have  let  the  boy  out  in  a  fortnight, 


88  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

as  soon  as  they  knew  what  way  it  was  with  him. 
I  told  the  doctor  that,  but  'crime,'  says  he,  and 
'scandal,'  says  he,  and  'conspiracy,'  says  he.  Be 
damn,  but  to  hear  him  talk  you'd  think  I  was 
trying  to  take  two  guineas  out  of  his  pocket  in- 
stead of  trying  to  put  it  in,  and  there's  the  thanks 
I  get  for  going  out  of  my  way  to  do  the  best 
I  could  for  him  so  as  he'd  rest  content  in  this 
place  and  let  Dr.  Farelly  stay  where  he  is  to  be 
cutting  the  legs  off  the  Germans." 

"It's  hard,  so  it  is,J>  said  Flanagan,  "and  I'm 
sorry  for  you,  sergeant.  But  that's  the  way 
things  is.  As  I  was  saying  to  you  once  before 
and  maybe  oftener,  the  English  is  queer  people, 
and  the  more  you'd  be  trying  to  please  them  the 
less  they  like  it.  It's  not  easy  to  deal  with  them, 
and  that's  a  fact." 


THE  BANDS  OF  BALLYGUTTERY 

THE  Wolfe  Tone  Republican  Club  has 
its  headquarters  at  Ballygtittery.  Its 
members,  as  may  be  guessed,  profess  the 
strongest  form  of  Nationalism.  There  are  about 
sixty  of  them.  The  Loyal  True-Blue  Invin- 
cibles  are  an  Orange  Lodge.  They  also  meet  in 
Ballyguttery.  There  are  between  seventy  and 
eighty  Loyal  Invincibles.  There  are  also  in  the 
village  ten  adult  males  who  are  not  members  of 
either  the  club  or  the  lodge.  Six  of  these  are 
policemen.  The  other  four  are  feeble  people  of 
no  account,  who  neglect  the  first  duty  of  good 
citizens  and  take  no  interest  in  politics. 

Early  in  September  the  Wolfe  Tone  Republi- 
cans determined  to  hold  a  demonstration.  They 
wished  to  convince  a  watching  world,  especially 
the  United  States  of  America,  that  the  people 
of  Ballyguttery  are  unanimous  and  enthusiastic 
in  the  cause  of  Irish  independence.  They  pro- 
posed to  march  through  the  village  street  in  pro- 
cession, with  a  band  playing  tunes  in  front  of 


90  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

them,  and  then  to  listen  to  speeches  made  by1 
eminent  men  in  a  field. 

The  Loyal  Invincibles  heard  of  the  intended 
demonstration.  They  could  hardly  help  hearing 
of  it,  for  the  Wolfe  Tone  Republicans  talked  of 
nothing  else,  and  the  people  of  Ballyguttery, 
whatever  their  politics,  live  on  friendly  terms 
with  each  other  and  enjoy  long  talks  about 
public  affairs. 

The  Loyal  Invincibles  at  once  assembled  and 
passed  a  long  resolution,  expressing  their  de- 
termination to  put  a  stop  to  any  National  dem- 
onstration. They  were  moved,  they  said,  by 
the  necessity  for  preserving  law  and  order,  safe- 
guarding life  and  property,  and  maintaining 
civil  and  religious  liberty.  No  intention  could 
have  been  better  than  theirs ;  but  the  Wolfe  Tone 
Republicans  also  had  excellent  intentions,  and 
did  not  see  why  they  should  not  demonstrate  if 
they  wished  to.  They  invited  all  the  eminent 
men  they  could  think  of  to  make  speeches  for 
them.  They  also  spent  a  good  deal  of  money 
on  printing,  and  placarded  the  walls  round  the 
village  with  posters,  announcing  that  their  dem- 
onstration would  be  held  on  September  fif- 
teenth, the  anniversary  of  the  execution  of  their 
patron  Wolfe  Tone  by  the  English. 


THE  BANDS  OF  BALLYGUTTERY    91 

In  fact  Wolfe  Tone  was  not  executed  by  the 
English  or  anyone  else,  and  the  date  of  his  death 
was  November  the  nineteenth.  But  that  made 
no  difference  to  either  side,  because  no  one  in 
Ballyguttery  ever  reads  history. 

The  Loyal  True-Blue  Invincibles  did  not  tear 
down  the  posters.  They  were  kindly  men, 
averse  to  unneighbourly  acts.  But  they  put  up 
posters  of  their  own,  summoning  every  man  of 
sound  principles  to  assemble  on  September  fif- 
teenth at  10.30  A.M_,  in  order  to  preserve  law, 
order,  life,  property,  and  liberty,  by  force  if 
necessary. 

Mr.  Hinde,  District  Inspector  of  Police  in 
Ballyguttery,  was  considering  the  situation. 
He  was  in  an  uncomfortable  position,  for  he  had 
only  four  constables  and  one  sergeant  under  his 
command.  It  seemed  to  him  that  law  and  order 
would  disappear  for  the  time,  life  and  property 
be  in  danger,  and  that  he  would  not  be  able  to 
interfere  very  much  with  anybody's  liberty. 
Mr.  Hinde  was,  however,  a  young  man  of  natu- 
rally optimistic  temper.  He  had  lived  in  Ire- 
land all  his  life,  and  he  had  a  profound  belief 
in  the  happening  of  unexpected  things. 

On  September  the  tenth  the  Wolfe  Tone  Re- 
publicans made  a  most  distressing  discovery. 


92  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

Six  months  before,  they  had  lent  their  band  in- 
struments to  the  Thomas  Emmet  Club,  an  im- 
portant association  of  Nationalists  in  the  neigh- 
bouring village. 

The  Thomas  Emmets,  faced  with  a  demand 
for  the  return  of  the  instruments,  confessed  that 
they  had  lent  them  to  the  Martyred  Archbishops' 
branch  of  the  Gaelic  League.  They,  in  turn, 
had  lent  them  to  the  Manchester  Martyrs'  Gaelic 
Football  Association.  These  athletes  would,  no 
doubt,  have  returned  the  instruments  honestly; 
but  unfortunately  their  association  had  been  sup- 
pressed by  the  Government  six  weeks  earlier  and 
had  only  just  been  re-formed  as  the  Irish  Ireland 
National  Brotherhood. 

In  the  process  of  dissolution  and  reincarna- 
tion the  band  instruments  had  disappeared.  No 
one  knew  where  they  were.  The  only  suggestion 
the  footballers  had  to  make  was  that  the  police 
had  taken  them  when  suppressing  the  Manches- 
ter Martyrs.  This  seemed  probable,  and  the 
members  of  the  Wolfe  Tone  Republican  Club 
asked  their  president,  Mr.  Cornelius  O'Farrelly, 
to  call  on  Mr.  Hinde  and  inquire  into  the  matter. 

Mr.  Hinde  was  surprised,  very  agreeably 
surprised,  at  receiving  a  visit  one  evening  from 
the  president  of  the  Republican  Club.  In 


THE  BANDS  OF  BALLYGUTTERY    93 

Ireland,  leading  politicians,  whatever  school  they 
belong  to,  are  seldom  on  friendly  terms  with  the 
police.  He  greeted  O'Farrelly  warmly. 

"What  I  was  wishing  to  speak  to  you  about 
was  this — "  O'Farrelly  began. 

"Fill  your  pipe  before  you  begin  talking," 
said  Mr.  Hinde.  "Here's  some  tobacco."  He 
offered  his  pouch  as  he  spoke.  "I  wish  I  could 
offer  you  a  drink ;  but  there's  no  whisky  to  be  got 
nowadays." 

"I  know  that,"  said  O'Farrelly  in  a  friendly 
tone,  "and  what's  more,  I  know  you'd  offer  it  to 
me  if  you  had  it." 

He  filled  his  pipe  and  lit  it.  Then  he  began 
again:  "What  I  was  wishing  to  speak  to  you 
about  is  the  band  instruments." 

"If  you  want  a  subscription — "  said  Hinde. 

"I  do  not  want  any  subscription." 

"That's  just  as  well,  for  you  wouldn't  get  it  if 
you  did.  I've  no  money,  for  one  thing;  and 
besides  it  wouldn't  suit  a  man  in  my  position  to 
be  subscribing  to  rebel  bands." 

"I  wouldn't  ask  you,"  said  O'Farrelly.  "Don't 
I  know  as  well  as  yourself  that  it  would  be  no 
use?  And  anyway  it  isn't  the  money  we  want, 
but  our  own  band  instruments." 

"What's   happened  to   them?"    said   Hinde. 


94  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

"You  had  a  lot.    Last  time  I  saw  your  band  it 
was  fitted  out  with  drums  and  trumpets  enough 
for  a  regiment." 
%  "It's  just  them  we're  trying  to  get  back." 

"If  anyone  has  stolen  them,"  said  Hinde,  "I'll 
look  into  the  matter  and  do  my  best  to  catch  the 
thief  for  you." 

"Nobody  stole  them,"  said  O'Farrelly;  "not 
what  you'd  call  stealing,  anyway;  but  it's  our 
belief  that  the  police  has  them." 

"You're  wrong  there,"  said  Hinde.  "The 
police  never  touched  your  instruments,  and 
wouldn't." 

"They  might  not  if  they  knew  they  were  ours. 
But  from  information  received  we  think  the 
police  took  them  instruments  the  time  they  were 
suppressing  the  Manchester  Martyrs  beyond  the 
Lisnan,  the  instruments  being  lent  to  them  foot- 
ballers at  that  time." 

"I  remember  all  about  that  business,"  said 
Hinde.  "I  was  there  myself.  But  we  never  saw 
your  instruments.  All  we  took  away  with  us  was 
two  old  footballs  and  a  set  of  rotten  goal-posts. 
Whatever  happened  to  your  instruments,  we 
didn't  take  them.  I  expect,"  said  Hinde,  "that 
the  Manchester  Martyr  boys  pawned  them." 

O'Farrelly  sat  silent.     It  was  unfortunately 


THE  BANDS  OF  BALLYGUTTERY    95 

quite  possible  that  the  members  of  the  football 
club  had  pawned  the  instruments,  intending,  of 
course,  to  redeem  them  when  the  club  funds  per- 
mitted. 

"I'm  sorry  for  you,"  said  Hinde.  "It's 
awkward  for  you  losing  your  drums  and  things 
just  now,  with  this  demonstration  of  yours  ad- 
vertised all  over  the  place.  You'll  hardly  be  able 
to  hold  the  demonstration,  will  you?" 

"The  demonstration  will  be  held,"  said  O'Far- 
relly  firmly. 

"Not  without  a  band,  surely.  Hang  it  all, 
O'Farrelly,  a  demonstration  is  no  kind  of  use 
without  a  band.  It  wouldn't  be  a  demonstration. 
You  know  that  as  well  as  I  do." 

O'Farrelly  was  painfully  aware  that  a  dem- 
onstration without  a  band  is  a  poor  business. 
He  rose  sadly  and  said  good  night.  Hinde  felt 
sorry  for  him. 

"If  the  police  had  any  instruments,"  he  said, 
"I'd  lend  them  to  you.  But  we  haven't  a  band 
of  our  own  here.  There  aren't  enough  of  us." 

This  assurance,  though  it  was  of  no  actual  use, 
cheered  O'Farrelly.  It  occurred  to  him  that 
though  the  police  had  no  band  instruments  to 
lend  it  might  be  possible  to  borrow  elsewhere. 
The  Loyal  True-Blue  Invincibles,  for  instance, 


96  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

had  a  very  fine  band,  well  supplied  in  every  way, 
particularly  with  big  drums.  O'Farrelly  thought 
the  situation  over  and  then  called  on  Jimmy 
McLoughlin,  the  blacksmith,  who  was  the  sec- 
retary of  the  Orange  Lodge. 

"Jimmy,"  said  O'Farrelly,  "we're  in  trouble 
about  the  demonstration  that's  to  be  held  next 
Tuesday." 

"It'd  be  better  for  you,"  said  Jimmy,  "if  that 
demonstration  was  never  held.  For  let  me  tell 
you  this:  the  Lodge  boys  has  their  minds  made 
up  to  have  no  Papist  rebels  demonstrating  here." 

"It  isn't  you,  nor  your  Orange  Lodge  nor  all 
the  damned  Protestants  in  Ireland  would  be  fit 
to  stop  us,"  said  O'Farrelly. 

Jimmy  McLoughlin  spit  on  his  hands  as  if 
in  preparation  for  the  fray.  Then  he  wiped 
them  on  his  apron,  remembering  that  the  time 
for  fighting  had  not  yet  come. 

"And  what's  the  matter  with  your  demonstra- 
tion?" he  asked. 

"It's  the  want  of  instruments  for  the  band 
that  has  us  held  up,"  said  O'Farrelly.  "We  lent 
them,  so  we  did,  and  the  fellows  that  had  them 
didn't  return  them." 

Jimmy  McLoughlin  pondered  the  situation. 
He  was  as  well  aware  as  Mr.  Hinde,  as  O'Far- 


THE  BANDS  OF  BALLYGUTTERY    97 

relly  himself,  that  a  demonstration  without  a 
band  is  a  vain  thing. 

"It  would  be  a  pity  now,"  he  said  slowly,  "if 
anything  was  to  interfere  with  that  demonstra- 
tion, seeing  as  how  you're  ready  for  it  and  we're 
ready  for  you." 

"It  would  be  a  pity.  Leaving  aside  any  po- 
litical or  religious  differences  that  might  be 
dividing  the  people  of  Ballyguttery,  it  would  be 
a  pity  for  the  whole  of  us  if  that  demonstration 
was  not  to  be  held." 

"How  would  it  be  now,"  said  Jimmy  Mc- 
Loughlin,  "if  we  was  to  lend  you  our  instruments 
for  the  day?" 

"We'd  be  thankful  to  you  if  you  did,  very 
thankful,"  said  O'Farrelly;  "and,  indeed,  it's  no 
more  than  I'd  expect  from  you,  Jimmy,  for  you 
always  were  a  good  neighbour.  But  are  you  sure 
that  you'll  not  be  wanting  them  yourselves?" 

"We  will  not  want  them,"  said  Jimmy  Mc- 
Loughlin.  "It'll  not  be  drums  we'll  be  beating 
that  day — not  drums,  but  the  heads  of  Papists. 
But  mind  what  I'm  saying  to  you  now.  If  we 
lend  you  the  instruments,  you'll  have  to  promise 
that  you'll  not  carry  them  beyond  the  cross-roads 
this  side  of  Dicky's  Brae.  You'll  leave  the  whole 
of  them  there  beyond  the  cross-roads,  drums  and 


98  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

all.  It  wouldn't  do  if  any  of  the  instruments 
got  broke  on  us  or  the  drums  lost — which  is  what 
has  happened  more  than  once  when  there's  been 
a,  bit  of  a  fight.  And  it'll  be  at  Dicky's  Brae  that 
we'll  be  waiting  for  you." 

"I  thought  as  much,"  said  O'Farrelly,  "and 
I'd  be  as  sorry  as  you'd  be  yourself  if  any  harm 
was  to  come  to  your  drums.  They'll  be  left  at 
the  cross-roads  the  way  you  tell  me.  You  may 
take  my  word  for  that.  You  can  pick  them  up 
there  yourselves  and  take  them  back  with  you 
when  you're  going  home  in  the  evening — those 
of  you  that'll  be  left  alive  to  go  home.  For  we'll 
be  ready  for  you,  Jimmy,  and  Dicky's  Brae  will 
suit  us  just  as  well  as  any  other  place." 

The  Wolfe  Tone  Republicans  are  honourable 
men.  Their  band  marched  at  the  head  of  the 
procession  through  the  streets  of  the  village. 
They  played  all  the  most  seditious  tunes  there 
-are,  and  went  on  playing  for  half  a  mile  outside 
the  village.  The  police,  headed  by  Mr.  Hinde, 
followed  them.  At  the  cross-roads  there  was  a 
halt.  The  bandsmen  laid  down  the  instruments 
very  carefully  on  a  pile  of  stones  beside  the  road. 
Then  they  took  the  fork  of  the  road  which  leads 
southwards. 


THE  BANDS  OF  BALLYGUTTERY    99 

The  direct  route  to  Dicky's  Brae  lies  north- 
west along  the  other  fork  of  the  road.  Cornelius 
O'Farrelly  had  the  instinct  of  a  military  com- 
mander. His  idea  was  to  make  a  wide  detour, 
march  by  a  cross-road  and  take  the  Dicky  Brae 
position  in  the  rear.  This  would  require  some 
time;  but  the  demonstrators  had  a  long  day  be- 
fore them,  and  if  the  speeches  were  cut  a  little 
short  no  one  would  be  any  the  worse. 

Jimmy  McLoughlin  and  the  members  of  the 
Loyal  True-Blue  Invincibles  sat  on  the  roadside 
at  the  foot  of  Dicky's  Brae  and  waited.  They 
expected  that  the  Wolfe  Tone  Republicans 
would  reach  the  place  about  noon.  At  a  quarter 
to  twelve  Mr.  Hinde  and  five  police  arrived. 
They  had  with  them  a  cart  carefully  covered  with 
sacking.  No  one  was  in  the  least  disturbed  by 
their  appearance.  Five  police,  even  with  an 
officer  at  their  head,  cannot  do  much  to  annoy 
two  armies  of  sixty  and  seventy  men. 

The  police  halted  in  the  middle  of  the  road. 
They  made  no  attempt  to  unload  their  cart. 

At  1.30  Jimmy  McLoughlin  took  council 
with  some  of  the  leading  members  of  the  Loyal 
True-Blue  Invincible  Lodge.  It  seemed  likely 
that  the  Wolfe  Tone  Republicans  had  gone  off  to 


100  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

demonstrate  in  some  other  direction,  deliberately 
shirking  the  fight  which  had  been  promised  them. 

"I'd  never  have  thought  it  of  Cornelius  O'Far- 
relly,"  said  Jimmy  sadly.  "I  had  a  better 
opinion  of  him,  so  I  had.  I  knew  he  was  a  Papist 
and  a  rebel  and  every  kind  of  a  blackguard,  but 
I'd  never  have  thought  he  was  a  coward." 

While  he  spoke,  a  small  boy  came  running 
down  the  hill.  He  brought  the  surprising  intel- 
ligence that  the  Wolfe  Tone  Republicans  were 
advancing  in  good  order  from  a  totally  unex- 
pected direction.  Jimmy  McLoughlin  looked 
round  and  saw  them.  So  did  Mr.  Hinde. 

While  Jimmy  summoned  his  men  from  the 
ditches  where  they  were  smoking  and  the  fields 
into  which  they  had  wandered,  Mr.  Hinde  gave 
an  order  to  his  police.  They  took  the  sacking 
from  their  cart.  Underneath  it  were  all  the  band 
instruments  belonging  to  the  Orange  Lodge. 
The  police  unpacked  them  carefully  and  then, 
loaded  with  drums  and  brass  instruments,  went 
up  the  road  to  meet  the  Wolfe  Tone  Republi- 
cans. 

Jimmy  McLoughlin  ran  to  Mr.  Hinde,  shout- 
ing as  he  went: 

"What  are  you  doing  with  them  drums?" 

Mr.  Hinde  turned  and  waited  for  them. 


THE  BAKDS  OF  BALLYGUTTERY  101 

"I'm  going  to  hand  them  over  to  Cornelius 
O'Farrelly,"  he  said. 

"You're  going  to  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  said 
Jimmy,  "for  they're  our  drums,  so  they  are." 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  that,"  said  Mr. 
Hinde,  "all  I  know  is  that  they're  the  instru- 
ments which  O'Farrelly 's  band  were  playing 
when  they  marched  out  of  the  town.  They  left 
them  on  the  side  of  the  road,  where  my  men 
found  them." 

"What  right  had  you  to  be  touching  them  at 
all,"  said  Jimmy. 

"Every  right.  O'Farrelly  was  complaining  to 
me  three  days  ago  that  one  set  of  band  instru- 
ments had  been  stolen  from  him.  It's  my  busi- 
ness to  see  that  he  doesn't  lose  another  set  in  the 
same  way,  even  if  he's  careless  enough  to  leave 
them  lying  about  on  the  side  of  the  road." 

"Amn't  I  telling  you  that  they're  ours,  not 
his?"  said  Jimmy. 

"You'll  have  to  settle  that  with  him." 

"Sure,  if  I  settle  that  with  him,"  said  Jimmy, 
"in  the  only  way  anything  could  be  settled  with 
a  pack  of  rebels,  the  instruments  will  be  broke 
into  smithereens  before  we're  done." 

This  seemed  very  likely.    Jimmy  McLough- 


102  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

lin's  bandsmen,  armed  with  sticks  and  stones, 
were  forming  up  on  the  road.  The  police  had 
already  handed  over  the  largest  drum  to  one  of 
the  leading  Wolfe  Tone  Republicans.  It  was 
Cornelius  O'Farrelly  who  made  an  attempt  to 
save  the  situation. 

He  came  forward  and  addressed  Mr.  Hinde. 
"It  would  be  better,"  he  said,  "if  you'd  march 
the  police  off  out  of  this  and  let  them  take  the 
band  instruments  along  with  them,  for  if  they 
don't  the  drums  will  surely  be  broke  and  the  rest 
of  the  things  twisted  up  so  as  nobody'U  ever  be 
able  to  blow  a  tune  on  them  again,  which  would 
be  a  pity  and  a  great  loss  to  all  parties  con- 
cerned." 

"I'll  take  the  police  away  if  you  like,"  said 
Mr.  Hinde,  "but  I'm  hanged  if  I  go  on  carting 
all  those  instruments  about  the  country.  I  found 
them  on  the  side  of  the  road  where  you  left  them, 
and  now  that  I've  given  them  back  to  you  I'll 
take  no  further  responsibility  in  the  matter." 

The  two  sets  of  bandsmen  were  facing  each 
other  on  the  road.  The  instruments  were  di- 
vided between  them.  They  were  uttering  the 
most  bloodthirsty  threats,  and  it  was  plain  thai 
in  a  minute  or  two  there  would  be  a  scrimmage. 


THE  BANDS  OF  BALLYGUTTERY  103 

"Jimmy,"  said  O'Farrelly,  "if  the  boys  get 
to  fighting " 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Jimmy  gloomily,  "where 
the  money's  to  come  from  to  buy  new  drums." 

"It  might  be  better,"  said  O'Farrelly,  "if  we 
was  to  go  home  and  leave  the  instruments  back 
safe  where  they  came  from  before  worse  comes 
of  it." 

Ten  minutes  later  the  instruments  were  safely 
packed  again  into  the  cart.  One  of  the  Loyal 
True-Blue  Invincibles  led  the  horse.  A  Wolfe 
Tone  Republican  sat  in  the  cart  and  held  the 
reins.  Jimmy  McLoughlin  and  Cornelius 
O'Farrelly  walked  together.  It  was  plain  to 
everyone  that  hostilities  were  suspended  for  the 
day. 

"I'm  thinking,"  said  Jimmy,  "that  ye  didn't 
hold  your  demonstration  after  all.  I  hope  this'll 
be  a  lesson  to  you  not  to  be  trying  anything  of 
the  sort  for  the  future." 

"For  all  your  fine  talk,"  said  O'Farrelly,  "you 
didn't  stop  us.  And  why  not?  Because  you 
weren't  fit  to  do  it." 

"We  could  have  done  it,"  said  Jimmy,  "and 
we  would.  But  what's  the  use  of  talking?  So 
long  as  no  demonstration  was  held  we're  satis- 
fied." 


104  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

"So  long  as  you  didn't  get  interfering  with  us, 
we're  satisfied." 

Mr.  Hinde,  walking  behind  the  procession 
with  his  five  police,  had  perhaps  the  hest  reason 
of  all  for  satisfaction. 


VI 

STARTING  THE  TRAIN 

TOM  O'DONOVAN  leaned  as  far  as  pos- 
sible out  of  the  window  of  the  railway 
carriage,  a  first-class  smoking  carriage. 

"Good-bye  Jessie,  old  girl,"  he  said.  'Til  be 
back  the  day  after  to-morrow,  or  the  next  day 
at  latest.  Take  care  of  yourself." 

Mrs.  O'Donovan,  who  was  not  very  tall,  stood 
on  tip-toe  while  he  kissed  her. 

"You'll  have  time  enough  to  get  dinner  in 
Dublin,"  she  said,  "or  will  you  dine  on  the  boat?" 

"They  give  you  a  pretty  fair  dinner  on  the 
boat,"  said  Tom,  "and  it's  less  fussy  to  go  on 
board  at  once." 

She  had  said  that  to  him  before,  and  he  had 
made  the  same  answer;  but  it  is  necessary  to  keep 
on  saying  something  while  waiting  for  a  train  to 
start,  and  on  such  occasions  there  is  very  seldom 
anything  fresh  to  say. 

"And  you'll  see  Mr.  Manners  to-morrow 
morning,"  she  said,  after  a  short  pause. 

"Appointment  for  10.30,"  said  Tom.     "I'll 

105 


106  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

breakfast  at  the  Euston  Hotel  and  take  the  tube 
to  his  office.  Bye-bye,  old  girl." 

But  the  "bye-bye,"  like  the  kiss,  was  prema- 
ture. The  train  did  not  start. 

"If  I  get  Manners'  agency,"  said  Tom,  "we'll 
be  on  the  pig's  back.  You'll  be  driving  about 
in  a  big  car  with  a  fur  coat  on  you  in  the  inside 
of  six  months." 

"Be  as  fascinating  as  you  can,  Tom,"  she  said. 

"He'd  hardly  have  asked  me  to  go  all  the 
way  to  London,"  said  Tom,  "if  he  wasn't  going 
to  give  me  the  agency." 

They  had  reasoned  all  that  out  half-a-dozen 
times  since  the  letter  arrived  which  summoned 
Tom  to  an  interview  in  Mr.  Manners'  office. 
There  was  no  doubt  that  the  agency,  which 
meant  the  sole  right  of  selling  the  Manners' 
machines  in  Ireland,  would  be  exceedingly 
profitable.  And  Tom  O 'Donovan  believed  that 
he  had  secured  it. 

He  glanced  at  the  watch  on  his  wrist. 

"I  wonder  what  the  deuce  we're  waiting  for," 
he  said. 

But  passengers  on  Irish  railways  now-a-days 
are  all  accustomed  to  trains  which  do  not  start, 
and  have  learned  the  lesson  of  patience.  Tom 
waited,  without  any  sign  of  irritation.  Mrs. 


STARTING  THE  TRAIN        107 

O 'Donovan  chatted  pleasantly  to  him.  The 
train  had  reached  the  station  in  good  time.  It 
was  due  in  Dublin  two  hours  before  the  mail  boat 
left  Kingstown.  There  was  no  need  to  feel  wor- 
ried. 

Yet  at  the  end  of  half-an-hour  Tom  did  begin 
to  feel  worried.  When  three-quarters  of  an  hour 
had  passed  he  became  acutely  anxious. 

"If  we  don't  get  a  move  on  soon,"  he  said,  "I 
shall  miss  the  boat,  and — I  say,  Jessie,  this  is 
getting  serious." 

Missing  the  boat  meant  missing  his  appoint- 
ment in  London  next  morning,  and  then — why, 
then  Manners  would  probably  give  the  agency  to 
someone  else.  Tom  opened  the  door  of  his  car- 
riage and  jumped  out. 

"I'll  speak  to  the  guard,"  he  said,  "and  find 
out  what's  the  matter." 

The  guard,  a  fat,  good-humoured  looking 
man,  was  talking  earnestly  to  the  engine  driver. 
Tom  O 'Donovan  addressed  him  explosively. 

"Why  the  devil  don't  you  go  on?"  he  said. 

"The  train  is  not  going  on  to-day,"  said  the 
guard.  "It'll  maybe  never  go  on  at  all." 

"Why  not?" 

It  was  the  engine  driver  who  replied.  He  was 
a  tall,  grave  man,  and  he  spoke  with  dignity,  as 


108  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

if  he  were  accustomed  to  making  public  speeches 
on  solemn  occasions. 

"This  train,"  he  said,  "will  not  be  used  for  the 
conveyance  of  the  armed  forces  of  the  English 
Crown,  which  country  is  presently  at  war  with 
the  Irish  Republic." 

"There's  soldiers  got  into  the  train  at  this 
station,"  said  the  guard,  in  a  friendly  explana- 
tory tone,  "and  the  way  things  is  it  wouldn't  suit 
us  to  be  going  on,  as  long  as  them  ones,"  he 
pointed  to  the  rear  of  the  train  with  his  thumb, 
"stays  where  they  are." 

"But — oh,  hang  it  all! — if  the  train  doesn't  go 
on  I  shall  miss  the  mail  boat  at  Kingstown,  and 
if  I'm  not  in  London  to-morrow  morning  I  shall 
lose  the  best  part  of  £1,000  a  year." 

"That  would  be  a  pity  now,"  said  the  guard. 
"And  I'd  be  sorry  for  any  gentleman  to  be  put 
to  such  a  loss.  But  what  can  we  do?  The  way 
things  is  at  the  present  time  it  wouldn't  suit 
either  the  driver  or  me  to  be  taking  the  train  on 
while  there'd  be  soldiers  in  it.  It's  queer  times 
we're  having  at  present  and  that's  a  fact." 

The  extreme  queerness  of  the  times  offered  no 
kind  of  consolation  to  Tom  O  'Donovan.  But  he 
knew  it  was  no  good  arguing  with  the  guard. 


STARTING  THE  TRAIN        109 

He  contented  himself  with  the  fervent  expres- 
sion of  an  opinion  which  he  honestly  held. 

"It  would  be  a  jolly  good  thing  for  every- 
body," he  said,  "if  the  English  army  and  the 
Irish  Republic  and  your  silly  war  and  every 
kind  of  idiot  who  goes  in  for  politics  were  put 
into  a  pot  together  and  boiled  down  for  soup." 

He  turned  and  walked  away.  As  he  went  he 
heard  the  guard  expressing  mild  agreement  with 
his  sentiment. 

"It  might  be,"  said  the  guard.  "I  wouldn't 
say  but  that  might  be  the  best  in  the  latter  end." 

Tom  O'Donovan,  having  failed  with  the  guard 
and  the  engine  driver,  made  up  his  mind  to  try 
what  he  could  do  with  the  soldiers.  He  was  not 
very  hopeful  of  persuading  them  to  leave  the 
train;  but  his  position  was  so  nearly  desperate 
that  he  was  unwilling  to  surrender  any  chance. 
He  found  a  smart  young  sergeant  and  six  men 
of  the  Royal  Wessex  Light  Infantry  seated  in  a 
third-class  carriage.  They  wore  shrapnel  hel- 
mets, and  their  rifles  were  propped  up  between 
their  knees. 

"Sergeant,"  said  Tom,  "I  suppose  you  know 
you  are  holding  up  the  whole  train." 

"My  orders,  sir,"  said  the  sergeant,  "is  to 
travel " 


110  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

"Oh,  I  know  all  about  your  orders.  But  look 
here.  It  would  suit  you  just  as  well  to  hold  up 
the  next  train.  There's  another  in  two  hours, 
and  you  can  get  into  it  and  sit  in  it  all  night. 
But  if  you  don't  let  this  train  go  on  I  shall  miss 
the  boat  at  Kingstown,  and  if  I'm  not  in  London 
to-morrow  morning  I  stand  to  lose  <£l,000  a 
year.'* 

"Very  sorry,  sir,"  said  the  sergeant,  "but  my 
orders —  I'd  be  willing  to  oblige,  especially  any 
gentleman  who  is  seriously  inconvenienced.  But 
orders  is  orders,  sir." 

Jessie  O 'Donovan,  who  had  been  following 
her  husband  up  and  down  the  platform,  caught 
his  arm. 

"What  is  the  matter,  Tom?"  she  said.  "If  the 
train  doesn't  start  soon  you'll  miss  the  boat. 
Why  don't  they  go  on?" 

"Oh,  politics,  as  usual,  Jessie,"  said  Tom.  "I 
declare  to  goodness  it's  enough  to  make  a  man 
want  to  go  to  heaven  before  his  time,  just  to  be 
able  to  live  under  an  absolute  monarchy  where 
there  can't  be  any  politics.  But  I'm  not  done  yet. 
I'll  have  another  try  at  getting  along  before  I 
chuck  the  whole  thing  up.  Is  there  a  girl  any- 
where about,  a  good-looking  girl?" 

"There's  the  young  woman  in  the  bookstalls," 


STARTING  THE  TRAIN         111 

said  Jessie,  "but  she's  not  exactly  pretty.  What 
do  you  want  a  girl  for?" 

Tom  glanced  at  the  bookstall. 

"She  won't  do  at  all,"  he  said.  "They  all  know 
her,  and,  besides,  she  doesn't  look  the  part.  But 
I  know  where  I'll  get  the  girl  I  want.  Jessie, 
do  you  run  over  to  the  booking  office  and  buy 
two  third-class  returns  to  Dublin." 

He  left  her  standing  on  the  platform  while  he 
jumped  on  to  the  line  behind  the  train,  crossed 
it,  and  climbed  the  other  platform.  She  saw  him 
pass  through  the  gate  and  run  along  the  road  to 
the  town.  Being  a  loyal  and  obedient  wife  she 
went  to  the  booking  office  and  bought  two  tickets, 
undisturbed  by  the  knowledge  that  her  husband 
was  running  fast  in  search  of  a  girl,  a  good- 
looking  girl. 

Tom  O'Donovan,  having  run  a  hundred  yards 
at  high  speed,  entered  a  small  tobacconist's  shop. 
Behind  the  counter  was  a  girl,  young  and  very 
pretty.  She  was  one  of  those  girls  whose  soft 
appealing  eyes  and  general  look  of  timid  help- 
lessness excite  first  the  pity,  then  the  affection 
of  most  men. 

"Susie,"  said  Tom  O'Donovan,  breathlessly, 
"run  upstairs  and  put  on  your  best  dress  and 
your  nicest  hat  and  all  the  ribbons  and  beads  you 


112  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

have.  Make  yourself  look  as  pretty  as  you  can, 
but  don't  be  more  than  ten  minutes  over  the  job. 
And  send  your  father  to  me." 

Tom  O 'Donovan  was  a  regular  and  valued 
customer.  Susie  had  known  him  as  a  most  agree- 
able gentleman  since  she  was  ten  years  old.  She 
saw  that  he  was  in  a  hurry  and  occupied  with 
some  important  affair.  She  did  as  he  told  her 
without  stopping  to  ask  any  questions.  Two 
minutes  later  her  father  entered  the  shop  from 
the  room  behind  it. 

"Farrelly,"  said  Tom  O'Donovan,  "I  want 
the  loan  of  your  daughter  for  about  four  hours. 
She'll  be  back  by  the  last  train  down  from 
Dublin." 

"If  it  was  any  other  gentleman  only  yourself, 
Mr.  O'Donovan,  who  asked  me  the  like  of  that 
I'd  kick  him  out  of  the  shop." 

"Oh!  it's  all  right,"  said  Tom,  "my  wife  will 
be  with  her  the  whole  time  and  bring  her  back 
safe." 

"I'm  not  asking  what  you  want  her  for,  Mr. 
O'Donovan,"  said  Farrelly,  "but  if  it  was  any 
other  gentleman  only  yourself  I  would  ask." 

"I  want  to  take  her  up  to  Dublin  along  with 
my  wife,"  said  Tom,  "and  send  her  down  by  the 
next  train.  I'd  explain  the  whole  thing  to  you 


STARTING  THE  TRAIN         113 

if  I  had  time,  but  I  haven't.  All  I  can  tell  you 
is  that  I'll  most  likely  lose  £1,000  a  year  if  I 
don't  get  Susie." 

"Say  no  more,  Mr.  O'Donovan,"  said  Far- 
relly.  "If  that's  the  way  of  it  you  and  Mrs. 
O'Donovan  can  have  the  loan  of  Susie  for  as  long 
as  pleases  you." 

Susie  changed  her  dress  amazingly  quickly. 
She  was  back  in  the  shop  in  six  minutes,  wearing 
a  beautiful  blue  hat,  a  frock  that  was  almost  new, 
and  three  strings  of  beads  round  her  neck. 

"Come  on,"  said  O'Donovan,  "we  haven't  a 
minute  to  lose." 

They  walked  together  rery  quickly  to  the 
station. 

"Susie,"  said  Tom,  "I'm  going  to  put  you 
into  a  carriage  by  yourself,  and  when  you  get 
there  you're  to  sit  in  a  corner  and  cry.  If  you 
can't  cry " 

"I  can  if  I  like,"  said  Susie. 

"Very  well,  then  do.  Get  your  eyes  red  and 
your  face  swollen  and  have  tears  running  down 
your  cheeks  if  you  can  manage  it,  and  when  I 
come  for  you  again  you're  to  sob.  Don't  speak 
a  word  no  matter  what  anyone  says  to  you,  but 
sob  like — like  a  motor  bicycle." 

"I  will,"  said  Susie. 


114  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

"And  if  you  do  it  well,  I'll  buy  you  the  smart- 
est blouse  in  London  to-morrow  and  bring  it 
home  to  you." 

When  they  reached  the  station  they  jumped 
down  from  the  platform  and  crossed  the  line  to 
the  train.  Tom  opened  the  door  of  an  empty 
third-class  carriage  and  pushed  Susie  into  it. 
Then  he  went  round  to  the  back  of  the  train  and 
climbed  on  to  the  platform. 

He  made  straight  for  the  carriage  in  which  the 
soldiers  sat. 

"Sergeant,"  he  said,  "will  you  come  along  with 
me  for  a  minute?" 

The  sergeant,  who  was  beginning  to  find  his 
long  vigil  rather  dull,  warned  his  men  to  stay 
where  they  were.  Then  he  got  out  and  followed 
Tom  O 'Donovan.  Tom  led  him  to  the  carriage 
in  which  Susie  sat.  The  girl  had  done  very  well 
since  he  left  her.  Her  eyes  were  red  and  swollen. 
Her  cheeks  were  slobbered.  She  held  a  hand- 
kerchief in  her  hand  rolled  into  a  tight  damp  ball. 

"You  see  that  girl,"  said  Tom. 

"Yes,  sir/'  said  the  sergeant.  "Seems  to  be 
in  trouble,  sir." 

"She's  in  perfectly  frightful  trouble,"  said 
Tom.  "She's  on  her  way  to  Dublin — or  she 


STARTING  THE  TRAIN         115 

would  be  if  this  train  would  start — so  as  to  catch 
the  night  mail  to  Cork.  She  was  to  have  been 
married  in  Cork  to-morrow  morning  and  to  have 
gone  off  to  America  by  a  steamer  which  leaves 
Queenstown  at  10.80  a.m.  Now  of  course,  the 
whole  thing  is  off.  She  won't  get  to  Dublin  or 
Cork,  and  so  can't  be  married." 

Susie,  when  she  heard  this  pitiful  story,  sobbed 
convulsively. 

"It's  very  sad,"  said  Tom. 

The  sergeant,  a  nice,  tender-hearted  young 
man,  looked  at  Susie's  pretty  face  and  was 
greatly  affected. 

"Perhaps  her  young  man  will  wait  for  her, 
sir,"  he  said. 

"He  can't  do  that,"  said  Tom.  "The  fact  is 
that  he's  a  demobilised  soldier,  served  all  through 
the  war  and  won  the  V.C.  And  the  Sinn  Feiners 
have  warned  him  that  he'll  be  shot  if  he  isn't  out 
of  the  country  before  midday  to-morrow." 

Susie  continued  to  sob  with  great  vigour  and 
intensity.  The  sergeant  was  deeply  moved. 

"It's  cruel  hard,  sir,"  he  said.  "But  my 
orders " 

"I'm  not  asking  you  to  disobey  orders,"  said 
Tom,  "but  in  a  case  like  this,  for  the  sake  of  that 


116  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

poor  young  girl  and  the  gallant  soldier  who 
wants  to  marry  her — a  comrade  of  your  own, 
sergeant.  You  may  have  known  him  out  in 
France — I  think  you  ought  to  stretch  a  point. 
Listen  to  me  now  I" 

He  drew  the  sergeant  away  from  the  door  of 
the  carriage  and  whispered  to  him. 

"I'll  do  it,  sir,"  said  the  sergeant.  "My  orders 
say  nothing  about  that  point." 

"You  do  what  I  suggest,"  said  Tom,  "and  I'll 
fix  things  up  with  the  guard." 

He  found  the  guard  and  the  engine  driver 
awaiting  events  in  the  station-master's  office. 
They  were  quite  willing  to  follow  him  to  the  car- 
riage in  which  Susie  sat.  They  listened  with 
deep  emotion  to  the  story  which  Tom  told  them. 
It  was  exactly  the  same  story  which  he  told  the 
sergeant,  except  this  time  the  bridegroom  was 
a  battalion  commander  of  the  Irish  Volunteers 
whose  life  was  threatened  by  a  malignant  Black- 
and-Tan.  Susie  sobbed  as  bitterly  as  before. 

"It's  a  hard  case,  so  it  is,"  said  the  guard,  "and 
if  there  was  any  way  of  getting  the  young  lady 
to  Dublin " 

"There's  only  one  way,"  said  Tom,  "and  that's 
to  take  on  this  train." 


STARTING  THE  TRAIN        117 

"It's  what  we  can't  do,"  said  the  engine  driver, 
"not  if  all  the  girls  in  Ireland  was  wanting  to  get 
married.  So  long  as  the  armed  forces  of 
England " 

"But  they're  not  armed,"  said  Tom. 

"Michael."  said  the  engine  driver  to  the  guard, 
"did  you  not  tell  me  that  them  soldiers  has  guns 
with  them  and  tin  hats  on  their  heads?" 

"I  did  tell  you  that,"  said  the  guard,  "and  I 
told  you  the  truth." 

"My  impression  is,"  said  Tom,  "that  those 
soldiers  aren't  armed  at  all.  They  seem  to  be  a 
harmless  set  of  men  off  to  Dublin  on  leave,  very 
likely  going  to  be  married  themselves.  They're 
certainly  not  on  duty." 

The  engine  driver  scratched  his  head. 

Susie,  inspired  by  a  wink  from  Tom,  broke 
into  a  despairing  wail. 

"If  that's  the  way  of  it,"  said  the  engine 
driver,  "it  would  be  different,  of  course." 

"Come  and  see,"  said  Tom. 

The  sergeant  and  his  men  were  sitting  in 'their 
compartment  smoking  cigarettes.  Their  heads 
were  bare.  Most  of  them  had  their  tunics 
unbuttoned.  One  of  them  was  singing  a  song,  in 
which  the  whole  party  joined: 


118  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

"Mary,  Jane  and,  Polly 
Find  it  very  jolly 

When  we  take  them  out  with  us  to 
Tea— tea— tear 

There  was  not  a  single  rifle  to  be  seen  any- 
where. 

"There  now,"  said  Tom.  "You  see  for  your- 
selves. You  can't  call  those  men  munitions  of 
war." 

The  guard,  who  had  seen  the  soldiers  march 
into  the  station,  was  puzzled;  but  the  engine 
driver  seemed  convinced  that  there  had  been 
some  mistake. 

"I'll  do  it,"  he  said,  "for  the  sake  of  the  young 
girl  and  the  brave  lad  that  wants  to  marry  her, 
I'll  take  the  train  to  Dublin." 

"Well,  hurry  up,"  said  Tom.  "Drive  that  old 
engine  of  yours  for  all  she's  worth." 

The  driver  hastened  to  his  post.  The  guard 
blew  his  whistle  shrilly.  Tom  seized  his  wife  by 
the  arm. 

"Hop  into  the  carriage  with  Susie  Farrelly," 
he  said.  "Dry  her  eyes,  and  tell  her  I'll  spend 
£5  on  a  silk  blouse  for  her,  pink  or  blue  or  any 
colour  she  likes.  I'll  explain  the  whole  thing  to 
you  when  we  get  to  Dublin.  I  can't  travel  with 


STARTING  THE  TRAIN         119 

you.     The  guard  is  only  half  convinced  and 
might  turn  suspicious  if  he  saw  us  together." 

Tom  O'Donovan  caught,  just  caught  the  mail 
boat  at  Kingstown.  He  secured  the  agency  for 
the  sale  of  the  Manners'  machines  in  Ireland. 
He  is  in  a  fair  way  to  becoming  a  very  pros- 
perous man;  but  it  is  unlikely  that  he  will  ever 
be  a  member  either  of  Parliament  or  Dail 
Eireann.  He  says  that  politics  interfere  with 
business. 


VII 

UNLAWFUL  POSSESSION 

WHEN  Willie  Thornton,  2nd  Lieu- 
tenant in  the  Wessex  Fusiliers,  was 
sent  to  Ireland,  his  mother  was 
nervous  and  anxious.  She  had  an  idea  that  the 
shooting  of  men  in  uniform  was  a  popular  Irish 
sport  and  that  her  boy  would  have  been  safer  in 
Germany,  Mesopotamia,  or  even  Russia.  Willie, 
who  looked  forward  to  some  hunting  with  a 
famous  Irish  pack,  laughed  at  his  mother.  It 
was  his  turn  to  be  nervous  and  anxious  when, 
three  weeks  after  joining  his  battalion,  he  re- 
ceived an  independent  command.  He  was  a 
cheerful  boy  and  he  was  not  in  the  least  afraid 
that  anyone  would  shoot  him  or  his  men.  But 
the  way  the  Colonel  talked  to  him  made  him 
uncomfortable. 

"There's  your  village,"  said  the  Colonel. 

William  peered  at  the  map  spread  on  the 
orderly-room  table,  and  saw,  in  very  small  print, 

the  name  Dunedin.     It  stood  at  a  place  where 
120 


UNLAWFUL  POSSESSION      121 

many  roads  met,  where  there  was  a  bridge  across 
a  large  river. 

"You'll  billet  the  men  in  your  Court  House," 
said  the  Colonel,  "and  you'll  search  every  motor 
that  goes  through  that  village  to  cross  the 
bridge." 

"For  arms,  sir?"  said  Willie. 

"For  arms  or  ammunition,"  said  the  Colonel. 
"And  you'l  have  to  keep  your  eyes  open,  Thorn- 
ton. These  fellows  are  as  cute  as  foxes.  There 
isn't  a  trick  they're  not  up  to  and  they'll  tell  you 
stories  plausible  enough  to  deceive  the  devil  him- 
self." 

That  was  what  made  Willie  Thornton  ner- 
vous. He  would  have  faced  the  prospects  of  a 
straight  fight  with  perfect  self-confidence.  He 
was  by  no  means  so  sure  of  himself  when  it  was 
a  matter  of  outwitting  men  who  were  as  cute  as 
foxes;  and  "these  fellows"  was  an  unpleasantly 
yague  description.  It  meant,  no  doubt,  the  Irish 
enemy,  who,  indeed,  neither  the  Colonel  nor 
Willie  could  manage  to  regard  as  an  enemy  at 
all.  But  it  gave  him  very  litle  idea  of  the  form 
in  which  the  enemy  might  present  himself. 

On  the  evening  of  Good  Friday  Willie 
marched  his  men  into  Dunedin  and  took  pos- 
session of  the  Court  House.  That  day  was 


122  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

chosen  because  Easter  is  the  recognized  season 
for  Irish  rebellions,  just  as  Christmas  is  the 
season  for  plum  puddings  in  England,  and  May 
Day  the  time  for  Labour  riots  on  the  Continent. 
It  is  very  convenient  for  everybody  concerned  to 
have  these  things  fixed.  People  know  what  to 
expect  and  preparations  can  be  properly  made. 
The  weather  was  abominably  wet.  The  village 
of  Dunedin  was  muddy  and  looked  miserable. 
The  Court  House,  which  seldom  had  fires  in  it, 
was  damp  and  uncomfortable.  Willie  unloaded 
the  two  wagons  which  brought  his  men,  kit,  and 
rations,  and  tried  to  make  the  best  of  things. 

The  next  day  was  also  wet,  but  Willie, 
weighted  by  a  sense  of  responsibility,  got  up 
early.  By  six  o'clock  he  had  the  street  which 
led  to  the  bridge  barricaded  in  such  a  way  that 
no  motor-car  could  possibly  rush  past.  He  set 
one  of  his  wagons  across  the  street  with  its  back 
to  the  house  and  its  pole  sticking  out.  In  this 
position  it  left  only  a  narrow  passage  through 
which  any  vehicle  could  go.  He  set  the  other 
wagon  a  little  lower  down  with  its  back  to  the 
houses  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  and  its 
pole  sticking  out.  Anyone  driving  towards  the 
bridge  would  have  to  trace  a  course  like  the 
letter  S,  and,  the  curves  being  sharp,  would  be 


UNLAWFUL  POSSESSION      123 

compelled  to  go  very  slowly.  Willie  surveyed 
this  arrangement  with  satisfaction.  But  to  make 
quite  sure  of  holding  up  the  traffic  he  stretched 
a  rope  from  one  wagon  pole  to  the  other  so  as  to 
block  the  centre  part  of  the  S.  Then  he  posted 
his  sentries  and  went  into  the  Court  House  to 
get  some  breakfast. 

The  people  of  Dunedin  do  not  get  up  at  six 
o'clock.  Nowadays,  owing  to  the  imposition  of 
"summer  time"  and  the  loss  of  Ireland's  half- 
hour  of  Irish  time,  six  o'clock  is  really  only  half- 
past  four,  and  it  is  worse  than  folly  to  get  out 
of  bed  at  such  an  hour.  It  was  eight  o'clock  by 
Willie  Thornton's  watch  before  the  people  be- 
came aware  of  what  had  happened  to  their  street. 
They  were  surprised  and  full  of  curiosity,  but 
they  were  not  in  the  least  annoyed.  No  one  in 
Dunedin  had  the  slightest  intention  of  rebelling. 
No  one  even  wanted  to  shoot  a  policeman.  The 
consciences,  even  of  the  most  ardent  politicians, 
were  clear,  and  they  could  afford  to  regard  the 
performance  of  the  soldiers  as  an  entertainment 
provided  free  for  their  benefit  by  a  kindly  Gov- 
ernment. That  was,  in  fact,  the  view  which  the 
people  of  Dunedin  took  of  Willie  Thornton's 
barricade,  and  of  his  sentries,  though  the  sentries 


124  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

ought  to  have  inspired  awe,  for  they  carried 
loaded  rifles  and  wore  shrapnel  helmets. 

The  small  boys  of  the  village — and  there  are 
enormous  numbers  of  small  boys  in  Dunedin — 
were  particularly  interested.  They  tried  the  ex- 
periment of  passing  through  the  barricade, 
stooping  under  the  rope  when  they  came  to  it, 
just  to  see  what  the  soldiers  would  do.  The 
soldiers  did  nothing.  The  boys  then  took  to 
jumping  over  the  rope,  which  they  could  do 
when  going  downhill,  though  they  had  to  creep' 
under  it  on  the  way  back.  This  seemed  to  amuse 
and  please  the  soldiers,  who  smiled  amiably  at 
each  successful  jump.  Kerrigan,  the  butcher, 
encouraged  by  the  experience  of  the  small  boys, 
made  a  solemn  progress  from  the  top  of  the 
street  to  the  bridge.  He  is  the  most  important 
and  the  richest  man  in  Dunedin,  and  it  was  gen- 
erally felt  that  if  the  soldiers  let  him  pass  the 
street  might  be  regarded  as  free  to  anyone. 
Kerrigan  is  a  portly  man,  who  could  not  hare 
jumped  the  rope,  and  would  have  found  it  in- 
convenient to  crawl  under  it.  The  soldiers  po- 
litely loosed  one  end  of  the  rope  and  let  him  walk 
through. 

At  nine  o'clock  a  farmer's  cart,  laden  with 
manure,  crossed  the  bridge  and  began  to  climb 


UNLAWFUL  POSSESSION      125 

the  street.  Willie  Thornton  came  to  the  door 
of  the  Court  House  with  a  cigarette  in  his  mouth 
and  watched  the  cart.  It  was  hoped  by  the  peo- 
ple of  Dunedin,  especially  by  the  small  boys,  that 
something  would  happen.  Foot  passengers 
might  be  allowed  to  pass,  but  a  wheeled  vehicle 
would  surely  be  stopped.  But  the  soldiers  loosed 
the  rope  and  let  the  cart  go  through  without  a 
question.  Ten  minutes  later  a  governess  cart, 
drawn  by  a  pony,  appeared  at  the  top  of  the 
street.  It,  too,  was  passed  through  the  barricade 
without  difficulty.  There  was  a  general  feeling 
of  disappointment  in  the  village,  and  most  of  the 
people  went  back  to  their  houses.  It  was  raining 
heavily,  and  it  is  foolish  to  get  wet  through  when 
there  is  no  prospect  of  any  kind  of  excitement. 
The  soldiers,  such  was  the  general  opinion,  were 
merely  practising  some  unusual  and  quite  incom- 
prehensible military  manoeuvre. 

The  opinion  was  a  mistaken  one.  The  few 
who  braved  the  rain  and  stood  their  ground 
watching  the  soldiers,  had  their  reward  later  on. 
At  ten  o'clock,  Mr.  Davoren,  the  auctioneer, 
drove  into  the  village  in  his  motor-car.  Mr. 
Davoren  lives  in  Ballymurry,  a  town  of  some 
size,  six  miles  from  Dunedin.  His  business  re- 
quires him  to  move  about  the  country  a  good 


126  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

deal,  and  he  is  quite  wealthy  enough  to  keep  a 
Ford  car.  His  appearance  roused  the  soldiers  to 
activity.  Willie  Thornton,  without  a  cigarette 
this  time,  stood  beside  the  barricade.  A  sentry, 
taking  his  place  in  the  middle  of  the  street,  called 
to  Mr.  Davoren  to  halt.  Mr.  Davoren,  who  was 
coming  along  at  a  good  pace,  was  greatly  sur- 
prised, but  he  managed  to  stop  his  car  and  his 
engine  a  few  feet  from  the  muzzle  of  the  sentry's 
rifle. 

Willie  Thornton,  speaking  politely  but  firmly, 
told  Mr.  Davoren  to  get  out  of  the  car.  He  did 
not  know  the  auctioneer,  and  had  no  way  of  tell- 
ing whether  he  was  one  of  "these  fellows"  or  not. 
The  fact  that  Mr.  Davoren  looked  most  re- 
spectable and  fat  was  suspicious.  A  cute  fox 
might  pretend  to  be  respectable  and  fat  when 
bent  on  playing  tricks.  Mr.  Davoren,  still  sur- 
prised but  quite  good-humoured,  got  out  of  his 
car.  Willie  Thornton  and  his  sergeant  searched 
it  thoroughly.  They  found  nothing  in  the  way 
of  a  weapon  more  deadly  than  a  set  of  tyre 
levers.  Mr.  Davoren  was  told  he  might  go  on. 
In  the  end  he  did  go  on,  but  not  until  he,  the 
sergeant,  Willie  Thornton,  and  one  of  the  sen- 
tries had  worked  themselves  hot  at  the  starting- 
crank.  Ford  engines  are  queer-tempered  things, 


UNLAWFUL  POSSESSION      127 

with  a  strong  sense  of  self-respect.  When 
stopped  accidentally  and  suddenly,  they  often 
stand  on  their  dignity  and  refuse  to  go  on  again. 
All  this  was  pleasant  and  exciting  for  the 
people  of  Dunedin,  who  felt  that  they  were  not 
wasting  their  day  or  getting  wet  in  vain.  And 
still  better  things  were  in  store  for  them.  At 
eleven  o'clock  a  large  and  handsome  car  ap- 
peared at  the  end  of  the  street.  It  moved 
noiselessly  and  swiftly  towards  the  barricade. 
The  chauffeur,  leaning  back  behind  his  glass 
screen,  drove  as  if  the  village  and  the  street  be- 
longed to  him.  Dunedin  is,  in  fact,  the  property 
of  his  master,  the  Earl  of  Ramelton;  so  the 
chauffeur  had  some  right  to  be  stately  and 
arrogant.  Every  man,  woman,  and  child  in 
Dunedin  knew  the  car,  and  there  was  tiptoe 
excitement.  Would  the  soldiers  venture  to  stop 
and  search  this  car?  The  excitement  became 
intense  when  it  was  seen  that  the  Earl  himself 
was  in  the  car.  He  lay  back  very  comfortably 
smoking  a  cigar  in  the  covered  tonneau  of  the 
limousine.  Lord  Ramelton  is  a  wealthy  man 
and  Deputy  Lieutenant  for  the  county.  He 
sits  and  sometimes  speaks  in  the  House  of  Lords. 
He  is  well  known  as  an  uncompromising  Union- 


128  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

ist,  whose  loyalty  to  the  king  and  empire  is  so 
firm  as  to  be  almost  aggressive. 

There  was  a  gasp  of  amazement  when  the 
sentry,  standing  with  his  rifle  in  his  hands,  called 
"Halt!"  He  gave  the  order  to  the  earl's  chauf- 
feur quite  as  abruptly  and  disrespectfully  as  he 
had  given  it  to  Mr.  Davoren.  The  chauffeur 
stopped  the  car  and  leaned  back  in  his  seat  with 
an  air  of  detachment  and  slight  boredom.  It  was 
his  business  to  stop  or  start  the  car  and  to  drive 
where  he  was  told.  Why  it  was  stopped  or 
started  or  where  it  went  were  matters  of  entire 
indifference  to  him.  Lord  Ramelton  let  down 
the  window  beside  him  and  put  out  his  head. 

"What  the  devil  is  the  matter?"  he  said. 

He  spoke  to  the  chauffeur,  but  it  was  Willie 
Thornton  who  answered  him. 

"I'm  afraid  I  must  trouble  you  to  get  out  of 
the  car,  sir ;  you  and  the  chauffeur." 

He  had  spoken  quite  as  civilly  to  Mr.  Davoren 
half  an  hour  before.  He  added  "sir"  this  time 
because  Lord  Ramelton  is  an  oldish  man,  and 
Willie  Thornton  had  been  well  brought  up  and 
taught  by  his  mother  that  some  respect  is  due  to 
age.  He  did  not  know  that  he  was  speaking  to 
an  earl  and  a  very  great  man.  Lord  Ramelton 
was  not  in  the  least  soothed  by  the  civility. 


UNLAWFUL  POSSESSION      129 

"Drive  on,  Simpkins,"  he  said  to  the  chauffeur. 

Simpkins  would  have  driven  on  if  the  sentry 
had  not  been  standing,  with  a  rifle  in  his  hands, 
exactly  in  front  of  the  car.  He  did  the  next 
best  thing  to  driving  on.  He  blew  three  sharp 
blasts  of  warning  on  his  horn.  The  sentry  took 
no  notice  of  the  horn.  The  men  of  the  Wessex 
Fusiliers  are  determined  and  well-disciplined 
fellows.  Willie  Thornton's  orders  mattered  to 
that  sentry.  Lord  Ramelton's  did  not.  Nor  did 
the  chauffeur's  horn. 

Willie  Thornton  stepped  up  to  the  window  of 
the  car.  He  noticed  as  he  did  so  that  an  earl's 
coronet  surmounting  the  letter  R  was  painted 
on  the  door.  He  spoke  apologetically,  but  he 
was  still  quite  firm.  A  coronet  painted  on  the 
door  of  a  car  is  no  proof  that  the  man  inside  is 
an  earl.  The  Colonel  had  warned  Willie  that 
"these  fellows"  were  as  cute  as  foxes. 

"I'm  afraid  I  must  trouble  you  to  get  out,  sir," 
said  Willie.  "My  orders  are  to  search  every 
car  that  goes  through  the  Tillage." 

Lord  Ramelton  had  once  been  a  soldier  him- 
self. He  knew  that  the  word  "orders"  has  a 
sacred  force. 

"Oh,  all  right,"  he  said.    "It's  damned  silly; 


130  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

but  if  you've  got  to  do  it,  get  it  over  as  quick  as 
you  can." 

He  turned  up  the  collar  of  his  coat  and 
stepped  out  into  the  rain.  The  chauffeur  left  his 
seat  and  stood  in  the  mud  with  the  air  of  a 
patient  but  rather  sulky  martyr.  What  is  the 
use  of  belonging  to  the  aristocracy  of  labour,  of 
being  a  member  of  the  Motor  Drivers'  Union,  of 
being  able  to  hold  up  civilisation  to  ransom,  if 
you  are  yourself  liable  to  be  held  up  and  made 
to  stand  in  the  rain  by  a  common  soldier,  a  man 
no  better  than  an  unskilled  labourer.  Nothing 
but  the  look  of  the  rifle  in  the  unskilled  labourer's 
hand  would  have  induced  Simpkins  to  leave  his 
sheltered  place  in  the  car. 

Willie  Thornton  had  every  intention  of  con- 
ducting his  search  rapidly,  perhaps  not  very 
thoroughly.  Lord  Ramelton's  appearance,  his 
voice,  and  the  coronet  on  the  panel,  all  taken 
together,  were  convincing  evidence  that  he  was 
not  one  of  "these  fellows,"  and  might  safely  be 
allowed  to  pass. 

Unfortunately  there  was  something  in  the  car 
which  Willie  did  not  in  the  least  expect  to  find 
there.  In  the  front  of  the  tonneau  was  a  large 
packing-case.  It  was  quite  a  common-looking 
packing-case  made  of  rough  wood.  The  lid  was 


UNLAWFUL  POSSESSION      131 

neatly  but  firmly  nailed  down.  It  bore  on  its 
side  in  large  black  letters  the  word  "cube  sugar." 

Willie's  suspicions  were  aroused.  The  owners 
of  handsome  and  beautifully-upholstered  cars  do 
not  usually  drive  about  with  packing-cases  full 
of  sugar  at  their  feet.  And  this  was  a  very  large 
case.  It  contained  a  hundredweight  or  a  hun- 
dredweight and  a  half  of  sugar — if  it  contained 
sugar  at  all.  The  words  of  the  Colonel  recurred 
to  Willie:  "There's  not  a  trick  they're  not  up  to. 
They'd  deceive  the  devil  himself."  Well,  no  earl 
or  pretended  earl  should  deceive  Willie  Thorn- 
ton. He  gave  an  order  to  the  sergeant. 

"Take  that  case  and  open  it,"  he  said. 

"Damn  it,"  said  the  Earl,  "you  mustn't  do 
that." 

"My  orders,"  said  Willie,  "are  to  examine 
every  car  thoroughly." 

"But  if  you  set  that  case  down  in  the  mud  and 
open  it  in  this  downpour  of  rain  the — the  con- 
tents will  be  spoiled." 

"I  can't  help  that,  sir,"  said  Willie.  "My 
orders  are  quite  definite." 

"Look  here,"  said  Lord  Ramelton,  "if  I  give 
you  my  word  that  there  are  no  arms  or  ammu- 
nition in  that  case,  if  I  write  a  statement  to  that 
effect  and  sign  it,  will  it  satisfy  you?" 


132  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

"No,  sir,"  said  Willie.  "Nothing  will  satisfy 
me  except  seeing  for  myself." 

Such  is  the  devotion  to  duty  of  the  young 
British  officer.  Against  his  spirit  the  rage  of 
the  empire's  enemies  breaks  in  vain.  Nor  are 
the  statements  of  "these  fellows,"  however 
plausible,  of  much  avail. 

Lord  Ramelton  swallowed,  with  some  diffi- 
culty, the  language  which  gathered  on  his 
tongue's  tip. 

"Where's  your  superior  officer?"  he  said. 

Willie  Thornton  believed  that  all  his  superior 
officers  were  at  least  ten  miles  away.  He  had 
not  noticed — nor  had  anyone  else — that  a  grey 
military  motor  had  driven  into  the  village.  In 
the  grey  motor  was  a  General,  with  two  Staff 
Officers,  all  decorated  with  red  cap-bands  and 
red  tabs  on  their  coats. 

The  military  authorities  were  very  much  in 
earnest  over  the  business  of  searching  motor-cars 
and  guarding  roads.  Only  at  times  of  serious 
danger  do  Generals,  accompanied  by  Staff  Offi- 
cers, go  out  in  the  wet  to  visit  outpost  detach- 
ments commanded  by  subalterns. 

The  General  left  his  car  and  stepped  across 
the  road.  He  recognised  Lord  Ramelton  at 
once  and  greeted  him  with  cheery  playfulness. 


UNLAWFUL  POSSESSION      133 

"Hallo!"  he  said.  "Held  up!  I  never  ex- 
pected you  to  be  caught  smuggling  arms  about 
the  country." 

"I  wish  you'd  tell  this  boy  to  let  me  drive 
on,"  said  Lord  Ramelton.  "I'm  getting  wet 
through." 

The  General  turned  to  Willie  Thornton. 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  said. 

Willie  was  pleasantly  conscious  that  he  had 
done  nothing  except  obey  his  orders.  He  sa- 
luted smartly. 

"There's  a  packing-case  in  the  car,  sir,"  he 
said,  "and  it  ought  to  be  examined." 

The  General  looked  into  Lord  Ramelton's  car 
and  saw  the  packing-case.  He  could  scarcely 
deny  that  it  might  very  easily  contain  cartridges, 
that  it  was  indeed  exactly  the  sort  of  case  which 
should  be  opened.  He  turned  to  Lord  Ramel- 
ton. 

"It's  marked  sugar,"  he  said.  "What's  in  it 
really?" 

Lord  Ramelton  took  the  General  by  the  arm 
and  led  him  a  little  way  up  the  street.  When 
they  were  out  of  earshot  of  the  crowd  round  the 
car  he  spoke  in  a  low  voice. 

"It  is  sugar,"  he  said.  "I  give  you  my  word 
that  there's  nothing  it  that  case  except  sugar." 


134  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

"Good  Lord!"  said  the  General.  "Of  course, 
when  you  say  so  it's  all  right,  Ramelton.  But 
would  you  mind  telling  me  why  you  want  to  go 
driving  about  the  country  with  two  or  three 
hundredweight  of  sugar  in  your  car?" 

"It's  not  my  sugar  at  all,"  said  Lord  Ramel- 
ton. "It's  my  wife's.  You  know  the  way  we're 
rationed  for  sugar  now — half  a  pound  a  head  and 
the  servants  eat  all  of  it.  Well,  her  ladyship  is 
bent  on  making  some  marmalade  and  rhubarb 
jam.  I  don't  know  how  she  did  it,  but  she  got 
some  sugar  from  a  man  at  Ballymurry.  Wan- 
gled it.  Isn't  that  the  word?"  * 

"Seems  exactly  the  word,"  said  the  General. 

"And  I'm  bringing  it  home  to  her.  That's 
all." 

"I  see,"  said  the  General.  "But  why  not  have 
let  the  officer  see  what  was  in  the  case?  Sugar 
is  no  business  of  his,  and  you'd  have  saved  a  lot 
of  time  and  trouble." 

"Because  a  village  like  this  is  simply  full  of 
spies." 

"Spies!"  said  the  General.  "If  I  thought 
there  were  spies  here  I'd " 

"Oh,  not  the  kind  of  spies  you  mean.  The 
Dunedin  people  are  far  too  sensible  for  that  sort 
of  thing.  But  if  one  of  the  shopkeepers  here 


UNLAWFUL  POSSESSION       135 

found  out  that  a  fellow  in  Ballymurry  had  been 
doing  an  illicit  sugar  deal  he'd  send  a  letter  off 
to  the  Food  Controller  straightaway.  A  man 
up  in  Dublin  was  fined  £100  the  other  day  for 
much  less  than  we're  doing.  I  don't  want  my 
name  in  every  newspaper  in  the  kingdom  for 
obtaining  sugar  by  false  pretences." 

"All  right,"  said  the  General.  "Its  nothing 
to  me  where  you  get  your  sugar." 

Willie  Thornton,  much  to  his  relief,  was  or- 
dered to  allow  the  Earl's  car  to  proceed,  un- 
searched.  The  chauffeur,  who  was  accustomed 
to  be  dry  and  warm,  caught  a  nasty  chill,  and 
was  in  a  bad  temper  for  a  week.  He  wrote  to  the 
Secretary  of  his  Union  complaining  of  the  brutal 
way  in  which  the  military  tyrannised  over  the 
representatives  of  skilled  labour.  The  people 
of  Dunedin  felt  that  they  had  enjoyed  a  novel 
and  agreeable  show.  Lady  Ramelton  made  a 
large  quantity  of  rhubarb  jam,  thirty  pots  of 
marmalade,  and  had  some  sugar  over  for  the 
green  gooseberries  when  they  grew  large  enough 
to  preserve. 


VIII 

A  SOUL  FOR  A  LIFE 

DENIS  RYAN  and  Mary  Drennan 
stood  together  at  the  corner  of  the  wood 
where  the  road  turns  off  and  runs 
straight  for  a  mile  into  the  town.  They  were 
young,  little  more  than  boy  and  girl,  but  they 
were  lovers  and  they  stood  together,  as  lovers 
do.  His  left  arm  was  round  her.  His  right 
hand  held  her  hand.  Her  head  rested  on  his 
shoulder. 

"Mary,  darling,"  he  whispered,  "what's  to 
hinder  us  being  married  soon?" 

She  raised  her  head  from  his  shoulder  and 
looked  tenderly  into  his  eyes. 

"If  it  wasn't  for  my  mother  and  my  father, 
we  might,"  she  said;  "but  they  don't  like  you, 
Denis,  and  they'll  never  consent." 

Money  comes  between  lovers  sometimes;  but 
it  was  not  money,  nor  the  want  of  it,  which  kept 
Mary  and  Denis  apart.  She  was  the  daughter 
of  a  prosperous  farmer — a  rich  man,  as  riches  are 
reckoned  in  Ireland.  He  was  a  clerk  in  a  law- 

136 


A  SOUL  FOR  A  LIFE  137 

yer's  office,  and  poorly  paid.  But  he  might  have 
earned  more.  She  would  gladly  have  given  up 
anything.  And  the  objections  of  parents  in  such 
cases  are  not  insuperable.  But  between  these 
two  there  was  something  more.  Denis  Ryan 
was  a  revolutionary  patriot.  Mary  Drennan's 
parents  were  proud  of  another  loyalty.  They 
hated  what  Denis  loved.  The  two  loyalties 
were  strong  and  irreconcilable,  like  the  loyalties 
of  the  South  and  the  North  when  the  South  and 
the  North  were  at  war  in  America. 

"What  does  it  matter  about  your  father  and 
mother?"  he  said.  "If  you  love  me,  Mary,  isn't 
that  enough?" 

She  hid  her  face  on  his  shoulder  again.  He 
could  barely  hear  the  murmur  of  her  answer. 

"I  love  you  altogether,  Denis!  I  love  you  so 
much  that  I  would  give  my  soul  for  you!" 

A  man  came  down  the  road  walking  fast.  He 
passed  the  gate  of  Drennan's  farm  and  came 
near  the  corner  where  the  lovers  stood.  Denis 
took  his  arm  from  Mary's  waist,  and  they  moved 
a  little  apart.  The  man  stopped  when  he  came 
to  them. 

"Good-evening,  Denis!"  he  said.  "Good- 
evening,  Miss  Drennan!" 


138  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

The  greeting  was  friendly  enough,  but  he 
looked  at  the  girl  with  unfriendly  eyes. 

"Don't  forget  the  meeting  to-night,  Denis!" 
he  said.  "It's  in  Flaherty's  barn  at  nine  o'clock. 
Mind,  now!  It's  important,  and  you'll  be  ex- 
pected!" 

The  words  were  friendly,  but  there  was  the 
hint  of  a  threat  in  the  way  they  were  spoken. 
Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  he  walked  on 
quickly  towards  the  town.  Mary  stretched  out 
her  hands  and  clung  tight  to  her  lover's  arm. 
She  looked  up  at  him,  and  fear  was  in  her  face. 

"What  is  it,  Denis?"  she  asked.  "What  does 
Michael  Murnihan  want  with  you?" 

Women  in  Ireland  have  reason  to  be  fright- 
ened now.  Their  lovers,  their  husbands,  and  their 
sons  may  be  members  of  a  secret  society,  or  they 
may  incur  the  enmity  of  desperate  men.  No 
woman  knows  for  certain  that  the  life  of  the  man 
she  loves  is  safe. 

"What's  the  meeting,  Denis?"  she  whispered. 
"What  does  he  want  you  to  do?" 

He  neither  put  his  arm  round  her  nor  took 
her  hand  again. 

"It's  nothing,  Mary,"  he  said.  "It's  nothing 
at  all!" 

But  she  was  more  disquieted  at  his  words,  for 


A  SOUL  FOR  A  LIFE  139 

he  turned  his  face  away  from  her  when  he  spoke. 

"What  is  it?"  she  whispered  again.  "Tell  me, 
Denis!" 

"It's  a  gentleman  down  from  Dublin  that's 
to  talk  to  the  boys  to-night,"  he  said,  "and  the 
members  of  the  club  must  be  there  to  listen  to 
him.  It  will  be  about  learning  Irish  that  he'll 
talk,  maybe,  or  not  enlisting  in  the  English 
Army."  * 

"Is  that  all,  Denis?  Are  you  sure  now  that's 
all?  Will  he  not  want  you  to  do  anything?" 

That  part  of  the  country  was  quiet  enough. 
But  elsewhere  there  were  raidings  of  houses, 
attacks  on  police  barracks,  shootings,  woundings, 
murders ;  and  afterwards  arrests,  imprisonments, 
and  swift,  wild  vengeance  taken.  Mary  was 
afraid  of  what  the  man  from  Dublin  might  want. 
Denis  turned  to  her,  and  she  could  see  that  he 
was  frightened  too. 

"Mary,  Mary!"  he  said.  "Whatever  comes  or 
goes,  there'll  be  no  harm  done  to  you  or  yours !" 

She  loosed  her  hold  on  his  arm  and  turned 
from  him  with  a  sigh. 

"I  must  be  going  from  you  now,  Denis,"  she 
said.  "Mother  will  be  looking  for  me,  and  the 
dear  God  knows  what  she'd  say  if  she  knew  I'd 
been  here  talking  to  you." 


140  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

Mrs.  Drennan  knew  very  well  where  her 
daughter  had  been.  She  spoke  her  mind  plainly 
when  Mary  entered  the  farm  kitchen. 

"I'll  not  have  you  talking  or  walking  with 
Denis  Ryan,"  she  said;  "nor  your  father  won't 
have  it !  Everybody  knows  what  he  is,  and  what 
his  friends  are.  There's  nothing  too  bad  for 
those  fellows  to  do,  and  no  daughter  of  mine  will 
mix  herself  up  with  them!" 

"Denis  isn't  doing  anything  wrong,  mother," 
said  Mary.  "And  if  he  thinks  Ireland  ought  to 
be  a  free  republic,  hasn't  he  as  good  a  right  to 
his  own  opinion  as  you  or  me,  or  my  father 
either?" 

"No  man  has  a  right  to  be  shooting  and  mur- 
dering innocent  people,  whether  they're  police- 
men or  whatever  they  are.  And  that's  what 
Denis  Ryan  and  the  rest  of  them  are  at,  day  and 
night,  all  over  the  country.  And  if  they're  not 
doing  it  here  yet,  they  soon  will.  Blackguards, 
I  call  them,  and  the  sooner  they're  hanged  the 
better,  every  one  of  them!" 


In  Flaherty's  barn  that  night  the  gentleman 
from  Dublin  spoke  to  an  audience  of  some 
twenty  or  thirty  young  men  He  spoke  with 
passion  and  conviction.  He  told  again  the 


A  SOUL  FOR  A  LIFE  141 

thousand  times  repeated  story  of  the  wrongs 
which  Ireland  has  suffered  at  the  hands  of  the 
English  in  old,  old  days.  He  told  of  more  re- 
cent happenings,  of  men  arrested  and  impris- 
oned without  trial,  without  even  definite  accusa- 
tion, of  intolerable  infringements  of  the  common 
rights.  He  spoke  of  the  glorious  hope  of  na- 
tional liberty,  of  Ireland  as  a  free  Republic.  The 
men  he  spoke  too,  young  men  all  of  them, 
listened  with  flashing  eyes,  with  clenched  teeth, 
and  faces  moist  with  emotion.  They  responded 
to  his  words  with  sudden  growlings  and  curses. 
The  speaker  went  on  to  tell  of  the  deeds  of  men 
elsewhere  in  Ireland.  "The  soldiers  of  the  Irish 
Republic,"  so  he  called  them.  They  had  at- 
tacked the  armed  forces  of  English  rule.  They 
had  stormed  police  barracks.  They  had  taken 
arms  and  ammunitions  where  such  things  were  to 
be  found.  These,  he  said,  were  glorious  deeds 
wrought  by  men  everywhere  in  Ireland. 

"But  what  have  you  done  here?"  he  asked. 
"And  what  do  you  mean  to  do?" 

Michael  Murnihan  spoke  next.  He  said  that 
he  was  ashamed  of  the  men  around  him  and  of 
the  club  to  which  he  belonged. 

"It's  a  reproach  to  us,"  he  said,  "that  we're 
the  only  men  in  Ireland  that  have  done  nothing. 


142  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

Are  we  ready  to  fight  when  the  day  for  fighting 
comes?  We  are  not.  For  what  arms  have  we 
among  us  ?  Only  two  revolvers.  Two  revolvers, 
and  that's  all.  Not  a  gun,  though  you  know 
well,  and  I  know,  that  there's  plenty  of  guns 
round  about  us  in  the  hands  of  men  that  are 
enemies  to  Ireland.  I  could  name  twenty  houses 
in  the  locality  where  there  are  guns,  and  good 
guns,  and  you  could  name  as  many  more.  Why 
don't  we  go  and  take  them?  Are  we  cowards?" 

The  men  around  him  shouted  angrily  that  they 
were  no  cowards.  Denis  Ryan,  excited  and  in- 
tensely moved,  shouted  with  the  rest.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  an  intolerable  reproach  lay  on  him 
and  all  of  them. 

"What's  to  hinder  us  going  out  to-night?" 
said  Murnihan.  "Why  shouldn't  we  take  the 
guns  that  ought  to  be  in  our  hands  and  not  in 
the  hands  of  men  who'd  use  them  against  us? 
All  of  you  that  are  in  favour  of  going  out  to- 
night will  hold  up  your  hands." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  None  of  the 
men  present  had  ever  taken  part  in  any  deed  of 
violence,  had  ever  threatened  human  life  or 
openly  and  flagrantly  broken  the  law.  The 
delegate  from  Dublin,  standing  near  Murnihan, 


A  SOUL  FOR  A  LIFE  143 

looked  round  at  the  faces  of  the  men.  There 
was  a  cool,  contemptuous  smile  on  his  lips. 

"Perhaps,"  he  said,  "you'd  rather  not  do  it. 
Perhaps  you'd  rather  go  away  and  tell  the  police 
that  I'm  here  with  you.  They'll  be  glad  of  the 
information.  You'll  get  a  reward,  I  dare  say. 
Anyhow,  you'll  be  safe." 

Stung  by  his  reproach,  the  young  men  raised 
their  hands  one  after  another.  Denis  Ryan 
raised  his,  though  it  trembled  when  he  held  it  up. 

"So  we're  all  agreed,"  said  Murnihan.  "Then 
we'll  do  it  to-night.  Where  will  we  go  first?" 

There  was  no  lack  of  suggestions.  The  men 
knew  the  locality  in  which  they  lived  and  knew 
the  houses  where  there  were  arms.  Sporting 
guns  in  many  houses,  revolvers  in  some,  rifles  in 
one  or  two. 

"There's  a  service  rifle  in  Drennan's,"  said 
Murnihan,  "that  belonged  to  that  nephew  of  his 
that  was  out  in  France,  fighting  for  the  English, 
and  there's  a  double-barrelled  shotgun  there, 
too." 

"Drennan  is  no  friend  of  ours,"  said  a  man. 
"He  was  always  an  enemy  of  Ireland." 

"And  Drennan's  away  at  the  fair  at  Ballyrud- 
dery,  with  his  bullocks,"  said  another.  "There'll 
be  nobody  in  the  house — only  his  wife  and 


144  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

daughter.  They'll  not  be  able  to  interfere  with 
us." 

Murnihan  asked  for  ten  volunteers.  Every 
man  in  the  room,  except  Denis  Ryan,  crowded 
round  him,  offering  to  go. 

"Eight  will  be  enough,"  said  Murnihan. 
"Two  to  keep  watch  on  the  road,  two  to  keep  the 
women  quiet,  and  four  to  search  the  house  for 
arms." 

He  looked  round  as  he  spoke.  His  eyes  rested 
distrustfully  on  Denis  Ryan,  who  stood  by  him- 
self apart  from  the  others.  In  secret  societies 
and  among  revolutionaries,  a  man  who  appears 
anything  less  than  enthusiastic  must  be  regarded 
with  suspicion. 

"Are  you  coming  with  us,  Denis  Ryan?" 
asked  Murnihan. 

There  was  silence  in  the  room  for  a  minute. 
All  eyes  were  fixed  on  Denis.  There  was  not 
a  man  in  the  room  who  did  not  know  how  things 
were  between  him  and  Mary  Drennan.  There 
was  not  one  who  did  not  feel  that  Denis'  faith- 
fulness was  doubtful.  And  each  man  realised 
that  his  own  safety,  perhaps  his  own  life,  de- 
pended on  the  entire  fidelity  of  all  his  fellows. 
Denis  felt  the  sudden  suspicion.  He  saw  in  the 
faces  around  him  the  merciless  cruelty  which 


A  SOUL  FOR  A  LIFE  145 

springs  from  fear.  But  he  said  nothing.  It  was 
the  delegate  from  Dublin  who  broke  the  silence. 
He,  too,  seemed  to  understand  the  situation.  He 
realised,  at  all  events,  that  for  some  reason  this 
one  man  was  unwilling  to  take  part  in  the  raid. 
He  pointed  his  finger  at  Denis. 

"That  man,"  he  said,  "must  go,  and  must  take 
a  leading  parti" 

So,  and  not  otherwise,  could  they  make  sure 
of  one  who  might  be  a  traitor. 

"I'm  willing  to  go,"  said  Denis.  "I'm  not 
wanting  to  hang  back." 

Murnihan  drew  two  revolvers  from  his  pocket. 
He  handed  one  of  them  to  Denis. 

"You'll  stand  over  the  old  woman  with  that 
pointed  at  her  head,"  he  said.  "The  minute  we 
enter  the  house  we'll  call  to  her  to  put  her  hands 
up,  and  if  she  resists  you'll  shoot.  But  there'll 
be  no  need  of  shooting.  She'll  stand  quiet 
enough !" 

Denis  stepped  back,  refusing  to  take  the 
revolver. 

"Do  it  yourself,  Murnihan,"  he  said,  "if  it  has 
to  be  done!" 

"I'm  not  asking  you  to  do  what  I'm  not  going 
to  do  myself.  I'm  taking  the  other  revolver,  and 
I'll  keep  the  girl  quiet!" 


146  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

"But — but,"  said  Denis,  stammering,  "I'm  not 
accustomed  to  guns.  I've  never  had  a  revolver 
in  my  hand  in  my  life.  I'm — I'm  afraid  of  itl" 

He  spoke  the  literal  truth.  He  had  never 
handled  firearms  of  any  sort,  and  a  revolver  in 
the  hands  of  an  inexperienced  man  is  of  all 
weapons  the  most  dangerous.  Nevertheless, 
with  Murnihan's  eye  upon  him,  with  the  ring  of 
anxious,  threatening  faces  round  him,  he  took 
the  revolver. 

An  hour  later,  eight  men  walked  quietly  up 
to  the  Drennan's  house.  They  wore  black 
masks.  Their  clothes  and  figures  were  rudety 
but  sufficiently  disguised  with  wisps  of  hay  tied 
to  their  arms  and  legs.  Two  of  them  carried 
revolvers.  At  the  gate  of  the  rough  track  which 
leads  from  the  high  road  to  the  farmhouse  the 
party  halted.  There  was  a  whispered  word  of 
command.  Two  men  detached  themselves  and 
stood  as  sentries  on  the  road.  Six  men,  keeping 
in  the  shadow  of  the  trees,  went  forward  to  the 
house.  A  single  light  gleamed  in  one  of  the 
windows.  Murnihan  knocked  at  the  door. 
There  was  no  response.  He  knocked  again. 
The  light  moved  from  the  window  through  which 
it  shone,  and  disappeared.  Once  more  Murni- 
han knocked.  A  woman's  voice  was  heard. 


A  SOUL  FOR  A  LIFE  147 

"Who's  there  at  this  time  of  night?" 

"In  the  name  of  the  Irish  Republic,  open  the 
door!"  said  Murnihan.  "Open,  or  I'll  break  it 
down!" 

"You  may  break  it  if  you  please!"  It  was 
Mrs.  Drennan  who  spoke.  "But  I'll  not  open  to 
thieves  and  murderers!" 

The  door  of  an  Irish  farmhouse  is  a  frail  thing 
ill-calculated  to  withstand  assault.  Murnihan 
flung  himself  against  it,  and  it  yielded.  He 
stepped  into  the  kitchen  with  his  revolver  in  his 
hand.  Denis  Ryan  was  beside  him.  Behind  him 
were  the  other  four  men  pressing  in.  In  the 
chimney  nook,  in  front  of  the  still  glowing 
embers  of  the  fire,  were  Mrs.  Drennan  and  her 
daughter.  Mary  stood,  fearlessly,  holding  a 
candle  in  a  steady  hand.  Mrs.  Drennan  was 
more  than  fearless.  She  was  defiant.  She  had 
armed  herself  with  a  long-handled  hay-fork, 
which  she  held  before  her  threateningly,  as  a 
soldier  holds  a  rifle  with  a  bayonet  fixed. 

"Put  up  your  hands  and  stand  still,"  said 
Murnihan,  "both  of  you!" 

"Put  up  your  hands!"  said  Denis,  and  he 
pointed  the  revolver  at  Mrs.  Drennan. 

The  old  woman  was  undaunted. 


148  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

"You  murdering  blackguards!"  she  shouted. 
"Would  you  shoot  a  woman?" 

Then  she  rushed  at  him,  thrusting  with  the 
hay-fork.  Denis  stepped  back,  and  back  again, 
until  he  stood  in  the  doorway.  One  of  the  sharp 
prongs  of  the  hay-fork  grazed  his  hand,  and 
slipped  up  his  arm  tearing  his  skin.  Involun- 
tarily, his  hand  clutched  the  revolver.  His  fore- 
finger tightened  on  the  trigger.  There  was  a 
sharp  explosion.  The  hay-fork  dropped  from 
Mrs.  Drennan's  hand.  She  flung  her  arms  up, 
half  turned,  and  then  collapsed,  all  crumpled 
up,  to  the  ground. 

Mary  Drennan  sprang  forward  and  bent  over 
her. 

There  was  dead  silence  in  the  room.  The  men 
stood  horror-stricken,  mute,  helpless.  They  had 
intended — God  knows  what.  To  fight  for 
liberty!  To  establish  an  Irish  Republic!  To 
prove  themselves  brave  patriots!  They  had  not 
intended  this.  The  dead  woman  lay  on  the  floor 
before  their  eyes,  her  daughter  bent  over  her. 
Denis  Ryan  stood  for  a  moment  staring  wildly, 
the  hand  which  held  the  revolver  hanging  limp. 
Then  he  slowly  raised  his  other  hand  and  held  it 
before  his  eyes. 

Mary  Drennan  moaned. 


A  SOUL  FOR  A  LIFE  149 

"We'd  better  clear  out  of  this!"  said  Murni- 
han.  He  spoke  in  a  low  tone,  and  his  voice 
trembled. 

"Clear  out  of  this,  all  of  you !"  he  said.  "And 
get  home  as  quick  as  you  can.  Go  across  the 
fields,  not  by  the  roads !" 

The  men  stole  out  of  the  house.  Only  Denis 
and  Murnihan  were  left,  and  Mary  Drennan, 
and  the  dead  woman.  Murnihan  took  Denis  by 
the  arm  and  dragged  him  towards  the  door. 
Denis  shook  him  off.  He  turned  to  where  Mary 
kneeled  on  the  ground.  He  tore  the  mask  from 
his  face  and  flung  it  down. 

"Oh,  Mary,  Mary!"  he  said.  "I  never  meant 
it!" 

The  girl  looked  up.  For  an  instant  her  eyes 
met  his.  Then  she  bent  forward  again  across 
her  mother's  body.  Murnihan  grasped  Denis 
again. 

"You  damned  fool!"  he  said.  "Do  you  want 
to  hang  for  it?  Do  you  want  us  all  to  hang  for 
this  night's  work?" 

He  dragged  him  from  the  house.  With  his 
arm  round  the  waist  of  the  shuddering  man  he 
pulled  him  along  and  field  to  field  until  they 
reached  a  by-road  which  led  into  the  town. 


150  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

Three  days  later  Inspector  Chalmers,  of  the 
Royal  Irish  Constabulary,  and  Major  Whiteley, 
the  magistrate,  sat  together  in  the  office  of  the 
police  barrack  stations. 

"I've  got  the  men  who  did  it,"  said  Chalmers. 
"I've  got  the  whole  eight  of  them,  and  I  can  lay 
my  hands  on  all  the  rest  of  their  cursed  club  any 
minute  I  like." 

"Have  you  any  evidence?"  asked  Whiteley. 
"Any  evidence  on  which  to  convict?" 

"I've  no  evidence  worth  speaking  of,"  said 
Chalmers,  "unless  the  girl  can  identify  them. 
But  I  know  I've  got  the  right  men." 

"The  girl  won't  know  them,"  said  Whiteley. 
"They're  sure  to  have  worn  masks.  And  even 
if  she  did  recognise  one  of  them  she'd  be  afraid 
to  speak.  In  the  state  this  country's  in  every- 
one is  afraid  to  speak." 

"The  girl  won't  be  afraid,"  said  Chalmers. 
"I  know  her  father,  and  I  knew  her  mother 
that's  dead,  and  I  know  the  girl.  There  never 
was  a  Drennan  yet  that  was  afraid  to  speak. 
I've  sent  the  sergeant  to  fetch  her.  She  ought 
to  be  here  in  a  few  minutes,  and  then  you'll  see 
if  she's  afraid." 

Ten  minutes  later  Mary  Drennan  was  shown 
into  the  room  by  the  police-sergeant.  The  two 


A  SOUL  FOR  A  LIFE  151 

men  who  were  waiting  for  her  received  her 
kindly. 

"Sit  down,  Miss  Drennan!"  said  Major 
Whiteley.  "I'm  very  sorry  to  trouble  you,  and 
I'm  very  sorry  to  have  to  ask  you  to  speak  about 
a  matter  which  must  be  painful  to  you.  But  I 
want  you  to  tell  me,  as  well  as  you  can  recollect, 
exactly  what  happened  on  the  night  your  mother 
was  murdered." 

Mary  Drennan,  white  faced  and  wretched, 
told  her  story  as  she  had  told  it  before  to  the 
police-officer.  She  said  that  her  father  was  ab- 
sent from  home,  taking  bullocks  to  the  fair,  that 
she  and  her  mother  sat  up  late,  that  they  went 
to  bed  together  about  eleven  o'clock.  She  spoke 
in  emotionless,  even  tones,  even  when  she  told 
how  six  men  had  burst  into  the  kitchen. 

"Could  you  recognise  any  of  them?"  said  Ma- 
jor Whiteley. 

"I  could  not.  They  wore  masks,  and  had  hay 
tied  over  their  clothes." 

She  told  about  her  mother's  defiance,  about 
the  scuffle,  about  the  firing  of  the  shot.  Then 
she  stopped  short.  Of  what  happened  after- 
wards she  had  said  nothing  to  the  police-officer, 
but  Major  Whiteley  questioned  her. 


152  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

"Did  any  of  the  men  speak?  Did  you  know 
their  voices?" 

"One  spoke,"  she  said,  "but  I  did  not  know 
the  voice." 

"Did  you  get  any  chance  of  seeing  their 
faces,  or  any  of  their  faces?" 

"The  man  who  fired  the  shot  took  off  his  mask 
before  he  left  the  room,  and  I  saw  his  face." 

"Ah!"  said  Major  Whiteley.  "And  would 
you  recognise  him  if  you  saw  him  again?" 

He  leaned  forward  eagerly  as  he  asked  the 
question.  All  depended  on  her  answer. 

"Yes,"  said  Mary.  "I  should  know  him  if  I 
saw  him  again." 

Major  Whiteley  leaned  across  to  Mr.  Chal- 
mers, who  sat  beside  him. 

"If  you've  got  the  right  man,"  he  whispered, 
"we'll  hang  him  on  the  girl's  evidence." 

"I've  got  the  right  man,  sure  enough,"  said 
Chalmers. 

"Miss  Drennan,"  said  Major  Whiteley,  "I 
shall  have  eight  men  brought  into  this  room  one 
after  another,  and  I  shall  ask  you  to  identify 
Idle  man  who  fired  a  shot  at  your  mother,  the 
man  who  removed  his  mask  before  he  left  the 
room." 

He  rang  the  bell  which  stood  on  the  table. 


A  SOUL  FOR  A  LIFE  153 

The  sergeant  opened  the  door,  and  stood  at  at- 
tention. Mr.  Chalmers  gave  his  orders. 

"Bring  the  prisoners  into  the  room  one  by 
one,"  he  said,  "and  stand  each  man  there" — he 
pointed  to  a  place  opposite  the  window — "so 
that  the  light  will  fall  full  on  his  face." 

Inspector  Chalmers  had  not  boasted  foolishly 
when  he  said  that  he  had  taken  the  right  men. 
Acting  on  such  knowledge  as  the  police  possess 
in  every  country,  he  had  arrested  the  leading 
members  of  the  Sinn  Fein  Club.  Of  two  of  them 
he  was  surer  than  he  was  of  any  of  the  others. 
Murnihan  was  secretary  of  the  club,  and  the 
most  influential  member  of  it.  Denis  Ryan  had 
gone  about  the  town  looking  like  a  man  stricken 
with  a  deadly  disease  ever  since  the  night  of  the 
murder.  The  lawyer  who  employed  him  as  a 
clerk  complained  that  he  seemed  totally  incapa- 
ble of  doing  his  work.  The  police  felt  sure  that 
either  he  or  Murnihan  fired  the  shot;  that  both 
of  them,  and  probably  a  dozen  men  besides, 
knew  who  did. 

Six  men  were  led  into  the  office  one  after  an- 
other. Mary  Drennan  looked  at  each  of  them 
and  shook  her  head.  It  came  to  Murnihan's 
turn.  He  marched  in  defiantly,  staring  inso- 
lently at  the  police-officer  and  at  the  magistrate. 


154  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

He  displayed  no  emotion  when  he  saw  Mary 
Drennan.  She  looked  at  him,  and  once  more 
shook  her  head. 

"Are  you  sure?"  said  Chalmers.  "Quite 
sure?" 

"I  am  sure,"  she  said.  "He  is  not  the  man  I 
saw." 

"Remove  him,"  said  Chalmers. 

Murnihan  stood  erect  for  a  moment  before 
he  turned  to  follow  the  sergeant.  With  hand 
raised  to  the  salute  he  made  profession  of  the 
faith  that  was  in  him: 

"Up  the  rebels!"  he  said.  "Up  Sinn  Fein! 
God  save  Ireland!" 

Denis  Ryan  was  led  in  and  set  in  the  ap- 
pointed place.  He  stood  there  trembling.  His 
face  was  deadly  pale.  The  fingers  of  his  hands 
twitched.  His  head  was  bowed.  Only  once  did 
he  raise  his  eyes  and  let  them  rest  for  a  moment 
on  Mary's  face.  It  was  as  if  he  was  trying  to 
convey  some  message  to  her,  to  make  her  under- 
stand something  which  he  dared  not  say. 

She  looked  at  him  steadily.  Her  face  had 
been  white  before.  Now  colour,  like  a  blush, 
covered  her  cheeks.  Chalmers  leaned  forward 
eagerly,  waiting  for  her  to  speak  or  give  some 


A  SOUL  FOR  A  LIFE  155 

sign.  Major  Whiteley  tapped  his  fingers  ner- 
vously on  the  table  before  him. 

"That  is  not  the  man,"  said  Mary  Drennan. 

"Look  again,"  said  Chalmers.  "Make  no  mis- 
take." 

She  turned  to  him  and  spoke  calmly,  quietly: 

"I  am  quite  certain.    That  is  not  the  man." 

"Damn!"  said  Chalmers.  "The  girl  has  failed 
us,  after  all.  Take  him  away,  sergeant!" 

Denis  Ryan  had  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands  when  Mary  spoke.  He  turned  to  follow 
the  sergeant  from  the  room,  a  man  bent  and 
beaten  down  with  utter  shame. 

"Stop!"  said  Chalmers.  He  turned  fiercely 
to  Mary.  "Will  you  swear — will  you  take  your 
oath  he  is  not  the  man?" 

"I  swear  it,"  said  Mary. 

"You're  swearing  to  a  lie,"  said  Chalmers, 
"and  you  know  it." 

Major  Whiteley  was  cooler  and  more  cour- 
teous. 

"Thank  you,  Miss  Drennan,"  he  said.  "We 
need  not  trouble  you  any  further." 

Mary  Drennan  rose,  bowed  to  the  two  men, 
and  left  the  room. 

"You  may  let  those  men  go,  Chalmers,"  said 


156  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

Major  Whiteley  quietly.  "There's  no  evidence 
against  them,  and  you  can't  convict  them." 

"I  must  let  them  go,"  said  Chalmers.  "But 
they're  the  men  who  were  there,  and  the  last  of 
them,  Denis  Ryan,  fired  the  shot." 

Mary  Drennan  never  met  her  lover  again,  but 
she  wrote  to  him  once  before  he  left  the  country. 

"You  see  how  I  loved  you,  Denis.  I  gave  you 
your  life.  I  bought  it  for  you,  and  my  soul  was 
the  price  I  paid  for  it  when  I  swore  to  a  lie  and 
was  false  to  my  mother's  memory.  I  loved  you 
that  much,  Denis,  but  I  shall  never  speak  to  you 
again." 


PART  TWO 


PART  TWO 
IX 

A  BIRD  IN  HAND 

KONRAD  KARL  II.  lost  his  crown  and 
became  a  king  in  exile  when  Megalia 
became  a  republic.    He  was  the  victim 
of  an  ordinary  revolution  which  took  place  in 
1913,  and  was,  therefore,  in  no  way  connected 
with  the  great  war.    Konrad  Karl  was  anxious 
that  this  fact  should  be  widely  known.    He  did 
not  wish  to  be  mistaken  for  a  member  of  the 
group  of  royalties  who  came  to  grief  through 
backing  the  Germanic  powers. 

Like  many  other  dethroned  kings  he  made  his 
home  in  England.  He  liked  London  life  and 
prided  himself  on  his  mastery  of  the  English 
language,  which  he  spoke  fluently,  using  slang 
and  colloquial  phrases  whenever  he  could  drag 
them  in.  He  was  an  amiable  and  friendly  young 
man,  very  generous  when  he  had  any  money  and 
entirely  free  from  that  pride  and  exclusiveness 
which  is  the  fault  of  many  European  kings.  He 

159 


160  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

would  have  been  a  popular  member  of  English 
society  if  it  had  not  been  for  his  connection  with 
Madame  Corinne  Ypsilante,  a  lady  of  great 
beauty  but  little  reputation.  The  king,  who  was 
sincerely  attached  to  her,  could  never  be  induced 
to  see  that  a  lady  of  that  kind  must  be  kept  in 
the  background.  Indeed  it  would  not  have  been 
easy  to  conceal  Madame  Ypsilante.  She  was  a 
lady  who  showed  up  wherever  she  went,  and  she 
went  everywhere  with  the  king.  English  society 
could  neither  ignore  nor  tolerate  her.  So  Eng- 
lish society,  a  little  regretfully,  dropped  King 
Konrad  Karl. 

He  did  not  much  regret  the  loss  of  social  posi- 
tion. He  and  Madame  lived  very  comfortably 
in  a  suite  of  rooms  at  Beaufort's,  which,  as  every- 
one knows,  is  the  most  luxurious  and  most  ex- 
pensive hotel  in  London.  Their  most  intimate 
friend  was  Mr.  Michael  Gorman,  M.P.  for  Up- 
per Offaly.  He  was  a  broad-minded  man  with 
no  prejudice  against  ladies  like  Madame  Ypsi- 
lante. He  had  a  knowledge  of  the  by-ways  of 
finance  which  made  him  very  useful  to  the  king; 
for  Konrad  Karl,  though  he  lived  in  Beaufort's 
Hotel,  was  by  no  means  a  rich  man.  The  Crown 
revenues  of  Megalia,  never  very  large,  were 
seized  by  the  Republic  at  the  time  of  the  revolu- 


A  BIRD  IN  HAND  161 

tion,  and  the  king  had  no  private  fortune.  He 
succeeded  in  carrying  off  the  Crown  jewels  when 
he  left  the  country;  but  his  departure  was  so 
hurried  that  he  carried  off  nothing  else.  His 
tastes  were  expensive,  and  Madame  Ypsilante 
was  a  lady  of  lavish  habits.  The  Crown  jewels 
of  Megalia  did  not  last  long.  It  was  absolutely 
necessary  for  the  king  to  earn,  or  otherwise  ac- 
quire, money  from  time  to  time,  and  Michael 
Gorman  was  as  good  as  any  man  in  London  at 
getting  money  in  irregular  ways. 

It  was  Gorman,  for  instance,  who  started  the 
Near  Eastern  Wine  Growers'  Association.  It 
prospered  for  a  time  because  it  was  the  only 
limited  liability  company  which  had  a  king  on 
its  Board  of  Directors.  It  failed  in  the  end  be- 
cause the  wine  was  so  bad  that  nobody  could 
drink  it.  It  was  Gorman  who  negotiated  the 
sale  of  the  Island  of  Salissa  to  a  wealthy  Ameri- 
can. Madame  Ypsilante  got  her  famous  pearl 
necklace  out  of  the  price  of  the  island.  It  was 
partly  because  the  necklace  was  very  expensive 
that  King  Konrad  Karl  found  himself  short  of 
money  again  within  a  year  of  the  sale  of  the 
island.  The  moment  was  a  particularly  unfor- 
tunate one.  Owing  to  the  war  it  was  impossible 
to  start  companies  or  sell  islands. 


162  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

Things  came  to  a  crisis  when  Emile,  the  Bond 
Street  dressmaker,  refused  to  supply  Madame 
with  an  evening  gown  which  she  particularly 
wanted.  It  was  a  handsome  garment,  and  Ma- 
dame was  ready  to  promise  to  pay  £100  for  it. 
Mr.  Levinson,  the  business  manager  of  Emile's, 
said  that  further  credit  was  impossible,  when 
Madame's  bill  already  amounted  to  £630.  His 
position  was,  perhaps,  reasonable.  It  was  cer- 
tainly annoying.  Madame,  after  a  disagreeable 
interview  with  him,  returned  to  Beaufort's  Hotel 
in  a  very  bad  temper. 

Gorman  was  sitting  with  the  king  when  she 
stormed  into  the  room.  Hers  was  one  of  those 
simple  untutored  natures  which  make  little  at- 
tempt to  conceal  emotion.  She  flung  her  muff 
into  a  corner  of  the  room.  She  tore  the  sable 
stole  from  her  shoulders  and  sent  it  whirling  to- 
wards the  fireplace.  Gorman  was  only  just  in 
time  to  save  it  from  being  burnt.  She  dragged 
a  long  pin  from  her  hat  and  brandished  it  as  if 
it  had  been  a  dagger. 

"Konrad,"  she  said,  "I  demand  that  at  once 
the  swine-dog  be  killed  and  cut  into  small  bits 
by  the  knives  of  executioners." 

There  was  a  large  china  jar  standing  on  the 
floor  near  the  fireplace,  one  of  those  ornaments 


A  BIRD  IN  HAND  168 

which  give  their  tone  of  sumptuousness  to  the 
rooms  in  Beaufort's  Hotel.  Madame  rushed  at 
it  and  kicked  it.  When  it  broke  she  trampled 
on  the  pieces.  She  probably  wished  to  show  the 
size  of  the  bits  into  which  the  business  manager 
of  Emile's  ought  to  be  minced. 

Gorman  sought  a  position  of  safety  behind  a 
large  table.  He  had  once  before  seen  Madame 
deeply  moved  and  he  felt  nervous.  The  king, 
who  was  accustomed  to  her  ways,  spoke  sooth- 
ingly. 

"My  beloved  Corinne,"  he  said,  "who  is  he, 
this  pig?  Furnish  me  forthwith  by  return  with 
an  advice  note  of  the  name  of  the  defendant." 

The  king's  business  and  legal  experience  had 
taught  him  some  useful  phrases,  which  he  liked 
to  air  when  he  could ;  but  his  real  mastery  of  the 
English  language  was  best  displayed  by  his  use 
of  current  slang. 

"We  shall  at  once,"  he  went  on,  "put  him  up 
the  wind,  or  is  it  down  the  wind?  Tell  me,  Gor- 
man. No.  Do  not  tell  me.  I  have  it.  We  will 
put  the  wind  up  him." 

"If  possible,"  said  Gorman. 

Madame  turned  on  him. 

"Possible!"  she  said.  "It  is  possible  to  kill  a 
rat.  Possible!  Is  not  Konrad  a  king?" 


164  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

"Even  kings  can't  cut  people  up  in  that  sort 
of  way,"  said  Gorman,  "especially  just  now 
when  the  world  is  being  made  safe  for  democ- 
racy. Still  if  you  tell  us  who  the  man  is  we'll 
do  what  we  can  to  him." 

"He  is  a  toad,  an  ape,  a  cur-cat  with  mange, 
that  manager  of  Emile's,"  said  Madame.  "He 
said  to  me  'no,  I  make  no  evening  gown  for  Ma- 
dame.' " 

"Wants  to  be  paid,  I  suppose,"  said  Gorman. 
"They  sometimes  do." 

"Alas,  Corinne,"  said  the  king,  "and  if  I  give 
him  a  cheque  the  bank  will  say  'Prefer  it  in  a 
drawer.'  They  said  it  last  time.  Or  perhaps  it 
was  'Refer  it  to  a  drawer.'  I  do  not  remember. 
But  that  is  what  the  bank  will  do.  Gorman,  my 
friend,  it  is  as  the  English  say  all  O.K.  No, 
that  is  what  it  is  not.  It  is  U.P.  Well.  I  have 
lived.  I  am  a  King.  There  is  always  poison. 
I  can  die.  Corinne,  farewell." 

The  king  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height, 
some  five  foot  six,  and  looked  determined. 

"Don't  talk  rot,"  said  Gorman.  "You  are  not 
at  the  end  of  your  tether  yet." 

The  king  maintained  his  heroic  pose  for  a 
minute.  Then  he  sat  down  on  a  deep  chair  and 
sank  back  among  the  cushions. 


A  BIRD  IN  HAND  165 

"Gorman,"  he  said,  "you  are  right.  It  is  rot, 
what  you  call  dry  rot,  to  die.  And  there  is  more 
tether,  perhaps.  You  say  so,  and  I  trust  you, 
my  friend.  But  where  is  it,  the  tether  beyond 
the  end?" 

Madame,  having  relieved  her  feelings  by 
breaking  the  china  jar  to  bits,  suddenly  became 
gentle  and  pathetic.  She  flung  herself  on  to  the 
floor  at  Gorman's  feet  and  clasped  his  knees. 

"You  are  our  friend,"  she  said,  "now  and  al- 
ways. Oh  Gorman,  Sir  Gorman,  M.P.,  drag 
out  more  tether  so  that  my  Konrad  does  not  die." 

Gorman  disliked  emotional  scenes  very  much. 
He  persuaded  Madame  to  sit  on  a  chair  instead 
of  the  floor.  He  handed  her  a  cigarette.  The 
king,  who  understood  her  thoroughly,  sent  for 
some  liqueur  brandy  and  filled  a  glass  for  her. 

"Now,"  he  said.  "Trot  up,  cough  out,  tell  on, 
Gorman.  Where  is  the  tether  which  has  no  end? 
How  am  I  to  raise  the  dollars,  shekels,  oof? 
You  have  a  plan,  Gorman.  Make  it  work." 

"My  plan,"  said  Gorman,  "ought  to  work.  I 
don't  say  it's  a  gold  mine,  but  there's  certainly 
money  in  it.  I  came  across  a  man  yesterday 
called  Bilkins,  who's  made  a  pile,  a  very  nice  six 
figure  pile  out  of  eggs — contracts,  you  know, 
war  prices,  food  control  and  all  the  usual  ramp." 


166  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

"Alas,"  said  the  king,  "I  have  no  eggs,  not 
one.  I  cannot  ramp." 

"I  don't  expect  you  to  try,"  said  Gorman. 
"As  a  matter  of  fact  I  don't  think  the  thing 
could  be  done  twice.  Bilkins  only  just  pulled 
it  off.  My  idea " 

"I  see  it,"  said  Madame.  "We  invite  the  ex- 
cellent Bilkins  to  dinner.  We  are  gay.  He  and 
we.  There  is  a  little  game  with  cards.  Konrad 
and  I  are  more  than  a  match  for  Bilkins.  That 
is  it,  Gorman.  It  goes." 

"That's  not  it  in  the  least,"  said  Gorman. 
"Bilkins  isn't  that  kind  of  man  at  all.  He's  a 
rabid  teetotaller  for  one  thing,  and  he's  ex- 
tremely religious.  He  wouldn't  play  for  any- 
thing bigger  than  a  sixpence,  and  you'd  spend 
a  year  taking  a  ten-pound  note  off  him." 

"Hell  and  the  devil,  Gorman,"  said  the  king, 
"if  I  have  no  eggs  to  ramp  and  if  Bilkins  will 
not  play " 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  Gorman,  "I  told  you 
that  Bilkins'  egg  racket  was  a  bit  shady.  He 
wasn't  actually  prosecuted;  but  his  character 
wants  white-washing  badly,  and  the  man  knows 
it." 

The  king  sighed  heavily. 

"Alas,  Gorman,"  he  said,  "it  would  be  of  no 


A  BIRD  IN  HAND  167 

use  for  us  to  wash  Bilkins.  Corinne  and  I,  if 
we  tried  to  washwhite,  that  is,  I  should  say,  to 
whitewash,  the  man  afterwards  would  be  only 
more  black.  We  are  not  respectable,  Corinne 
and  I.  It  is  no  use  for  Bilkins  to  come  to  us." 

"That's  so,"  said  Gorman.  "I  don't  suppose 
a  certificate  from  me  would  be  much  good  either. 
Bilkins'  own  idea — he  feels  his  position  a  good 
deal — is  that  if  he  could  get  a  title — knighthood 
for  instance — or  even  an  O.B.E.,  it  would  set 
him  up  again;  but  they  won't  give  him  a  thing. 

He  has  paid  handsomely  into  the  best  adver- 
tised charities  and  showed  me  the  receipts  him- 
self—and handed  over  £10,000  to  the  party 
funds,  giving  £5,000  to  each  party  to  make  sure; 
and  now  he  feels  he's  been  swindled.  They 
won't  do  it — can't,  I  suppose.  The  eggs  were 
too  fishy." 

"I  should  not  care,"  said  the  king,  "if  all  the 
eggs  were  fishes.  If  I  were  a  party  and  could 
get  £5,000.  But  I  am  not  a  party,  Gorman,  I 
am  a  king." 

"Exactly,"  said  Gorman,  "and  it's  kings  who 
give  those  things,  the  things  Bilkins  wants. 
Isn't  there  a  Megalian  Order — Pink  Vulture  or 
something?" 

"Gorman,  you  have  hit  it,"  said  the  king  de- 


168  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

lightedly.  "You  have  hit  the  eye  of  the  bull, 
and  the  head  of  the  nail.  I  can  give  an  order, 
I  can  say  'Bilkins,  you  are  Grand  Knight  of  the 
Order  of  the  Pink  Vulture  of  Megalia,  First 
Class.'  Gorman,  it  is  done.  I  give.  Bilkins 
pays.  The  world  admires  the  honourableness  of 
the  Right  Honourable  Sir  Bilkins.  His  charac- 
ter is  washed  white.  Ah,  Corinne,  my  beloved, 
you  shall  spit  in  the  face  of  the  manager  of 
Emile's.  I  said  I  cannot  ramp.  I  have  no  eggs. 
I  was  wrong.  The  Vulture  of  Megalia  lays  an 
egg  for  Bilkins." 

"You've  got  the  idea,"  said  Gorman.  "But 
we  can't  rush  the  thing.  Your  Pink  Vulture  is 
all  right,  of  course.  I'm  not  saying  anything 
against  it.  But  most  people  in  this  country  have 
never  heard  of  it,  and  consequently  it  wouldn't 
be  of  much  use  to  a  man  of  Bilkin's  position. 
The  first  thing  we've  got  to  do  is  to  advertise 
the  fowl ;  get  it  fluttering  before  the  public  eye. 
If  you  leave  that  part  to  me  I'll  manage  it  all 
right.  I've  been  connected  with  the  press  for 
years." 

Three  days  later  it  was  announced  in  most  of 
the  London  papers  that  the  King  of  Megalia 
had  bestowed  the  Order  of  the  Pink  Vulture 
on  Sir  Bland  Potterton,  His  Majesty's  Minister 


A  BIRD  IN  HAND  169 

for  Balkan  Affairs,  in  recognition  of  his  services 
to  the  Allied  cause  in  the  Near  East.  Sir  Bland 
Potterton  was  in  Roumania  when  the  announce- 
ment appeared  and  he  did  not  hear  of  his  new 
honour  for  nearly  three  weeks.  When  he  did 
hear  of  it  he  refused  it  curtly. 

In  the  meanwhile  the  Order  was  bestowed  on 
two  Brigadier  Generals  and  three  Colonels,  all 
on  active  service  in  remote  parts  of  the  world. 
Little  pictures  of  the  star  and  ribbon  of  the 
Order  appeared  in  the  back  pages  of  illustrated 
papers,  and  there  were  short  articles  in  the  Sun- 
day papers  which  gave  a  history  of  the  Order, 
describing  it  as  the  most  ancient  in  Europe,  and 
quoting  the  names  of  eminent  men  who  had  won 
the  ribbon  of  the  Order  in  times  past.  The  Duke 
of  Wellington,  Lord  Nelson,  William  the  Silent, 
Galileo,  Christopher  Columbus,  and  the  historian 
Gibbon  appeared  on  the  list.  The  Order  was 
next  bestowed  on  an  Admiral,  who  held  a  com- 
mand in  the  South  Pacific,  and  on  M.  Cle- 
menceau. 

After  that  Gorman  dined  with  the  King. 

The  dinner,  as  is  always  the  case  in  Beaufort's 
Hotel,  was  excellent.  The  wine  was  good. 
Madame  Ypsilante  wore  a  dress  which,  as  she 
explained,  was  more  than  three  months  old. 


170  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

Emile,  it  appeared,  was  still  pressing  for  pay- 
ment of  the  bill  and  refused  to  supply  any  more 
clothes.  However,  neither  age  nor  custom  had 
staled  the  splendour  of  the  purple  velvet  gown 
and  the  jewellery — Madame  Ypsilante  always 
wore  a  great  deal  of  jewellery — was  dazzling. 

The  king  seemed  a  little  uneasy,  and  after 
dinner  spoke  to  Gorman  about  the  Megalian 
Order  of  the  Pink  Vulture. 

"You  are  magnificent,  Gorman,"  he  said, 
"and  your  English  press!  Ah,  my  friend,  if 
you  had  been  Prime  Minister  in  Megalia,  and 
if  there  had  been  newspapers,  I  might  to-day 
be  sitting  on  the  throne,  though  I  do  not  want 
to,  not  at  all.  The  throne  of  Megalia  is  what 
you  call  a  hot  spot.  But  my  friend  is  it  wise? 
There  must  be  someone  who  knows  that  the  Pink 
Vulture  of  Megalia  is  not  an  antique.  It  is,  as 
the  English  say,  mid- Victorian.  1865,  Gorman. 
That  is  the  date;  and  someone  will  know  that." 

"I  daresay,"  said  Gorman,  "that  there  may 
be  two  or  three  people  who  know;  but  they 
haven't  opened  their  mouths  so  far  and  before 
they  do  we  ought  to  have  Bilkins'  checque  safe." 

"How  much?"  said  Madame.  "That  is  the 
thing  which  matters." 

"After  he's  read  the  list  of  distinguished  men 


A  BIRD  IN  HAND  171 

who  held  the  order  in  the  past  and  digested  the 
names  of  all  the  generals  and  people  who've  just 
been  given  it,  we  may  fairly  expect  £5,000. 
We'll  screw  him  up  a  bit  if  we  can,  but  we  won't 
take  a  penny  less.  Considering  the  row  there'll 
be  afterwards,  when  Bilkins  finds  out,  we  ought 
to  get  £10,000.  It  will  be  most  unpleasant,  and 
it's  bound  to  come.  Most  of  the  others  will  re- 
fuse the  Order  as  soon  as  they  hear  they've  been 
given  it,  and  Bilkins  will  storm  horribly  and  say 
he  has  been  swindled,  not  that  there  is  any  harm 
in  swindling  Bilkins.  After  that  egg  racket  of 
his  he  deserves  to  be  swindled.  Still  it  won't  be 
nice  to  have  to  listen  to  him." 

"Bah!"  said  Madame,  "we  shall  have  the 
cash." 

"And  it  was  not  I,"  said  the  king,  "who  said 
that  the  Duke  of  Wellington  wore  the  Pink 
Vulture.  It  was  not  Corinne.  It  was  not  you, 
Gorman.  It  was  the  newspapers.  When  Bil- 
kins come  to  us  we  say  'Bah !  Go  to  The  Times, 
Sir  Bilkins,  go  to  The  Daily  Mail.9  There  is  no 
more  for  Bilkins  to  say  then." 

"One  comfort,"  said  Gorman,  "is  that  he  can't 
take  a  legal  action  of  any  kind." 

Their  fears  were,  as  it  turned  out,  unfounded. 
Bilkins,  having  paid,  not  £5,000  but  £6,000,  for 


172  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

the  Megalian  Order,  was  not  anxious  to  adver- 
tise the  fact  that  he  had  made  a  bad  bargain. 
Indeed  he  may  be  said  to  have  got  good  value 
for  his  money.  He  has  not  many  opportunities 
of  wearing  the  ribbon  and  the  star;  but  he  de- 
scribes himself  on  his  visiting  cards  and  at  the 
head  of  his  business  note  paper  as  "Sir  Timothy 
Bilkins,  K.C.O.P.V.M."  Nobody  knows  what 
the  letters  stand  for,  and  it  is  generally  believed 
that  Bilkins  has  been  knighted  in  the  regular 
way  for  services  rendered  to  the  country  during 
the  war.  The  few  who  remember  his  deal  in  eggs 
are  forced  to  suppose  that  the  stories  told  about 
that  business  at  the  time  were  slander.  Lady 
Bilkins,  who  was  present  at  the  ceremony  of  in- 
vesture,  often  talks  of  the  "dear  King  and  Queen 
of  Megalia."  Madame  Ypsilante  can,  when  she 
chooses,  look  quite  like  a  real  queen. 


X 

THE  EMERALD  PENDANT 

EVEN  as  a  schoolboy,  Bland-Potterton 
was  fussy  and  self-important.  At  the 
university — Balliol  was  his  college — he 
was  regarded  as  a  coming  man,  likely  to  make  his 
mark  in  the  world.  This  made  him  more  fussy 
and  more  self-important.  When  he  became  a 
recognised  authority  on  Near  Eastern  affairs  he 
became  pompous  and  more  fussy  than  ever.  His 
knighthood,  granted  in  1913,  and  an  inevitable 
increase  in  waist  measurement  emphasised  his 
pompousness  without  diminishing  his  fussiness. 
When  the  craze  for  creating  new  departments 
of  state  was  at  its  height,  Bland-Potterton,  then 
Sir  Bartholomew,  was  made  Head  of  the  Minis- 
try for  Balkan  Affairs.  It  was  generally  felt 
that  the  right  man  had  been  put  into  the  right 
place.  Sir  Bartholomew  looked  like  a  Minister, 
talked  like  a  Minister,  and,  what  is  more  impor- 
tant, felt  like  a  Minister.  Indeed  he  felt  like  a 
Cabinet  Minister,  though  he  had  not  yet  obtained 
that  rank.  Sir  Bartholomew's  return  from  Rou- 

173 


174  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

mania  was  duly  advertised  in  the  newspapers. 
Paragraphs  appeared  every  day  for  a  week  hint- 
ing at  a  diplomatic  coup  which  would  affect  the 
balance  of  power  in  the  Balkans  and  materially 
shorten  the  war.  Gorman,  who  knew  Sir  Bar- 
tholomew well,  found  a  good  deal  of  entertain- 
ment in  the  newspaper  paragraphs.  He  had 
been  a  journalist  himself  for  many  years.  He 
understood  just  whom  the  paragraphs  came 
from  and  how  they  got  into  print.  He  was  a 
little  surprised,  but  greatly  interested,  when  he 
received  a  note  from  Sir  Bartholomew. 

"My  dear  Mr.  Gorman,"  he  read,  "can  you 
make  it  convenient  to  lunch  with  me  one  day  next 
week?  Shall  we  say  in  my  room  in  the  office  of 
the  Ministry — the  Feodora  Hotel,  Piccadilly — 
at  1.30  p.m.  There  is  a  matter  of  some  impor- 
tance— of  considerable  national  importance — 
about  which  we  are  most  anxious  to  obtain  your 
advice  and  your  help.  Will  you  fix  the  earliest 
possible  day?  The  condition  of  the  Near  East 
demands — urgently  demands — our  attention.  I 
am,  my  dear  Mr.  Gorman,  yours,  etc.  .  .  ." 

Gorman  without  hesitation  fixed  Monday, 
which  is  the  earliest  day  in  any  week  except  Sun- 
day, and  he  did  not  suppose  that  the  offices  of 


THE  EMERALD  PENDANT      175 

the  Ministry  of  Balkan  Affairs  would  be  open 
on  Sunday. 

It  is  not  true,  though  it  is  frequently  said,  that 
Sir  Bartholomew  retained  the  services  of  the 
chef  of  the  Feodora  Hotel  when  he  took  over 
the  building  for  the  use  of  his  Ministry.  It  is 
well  known  that  Sir  Bartholomew — in  his  zeal 
for  the  public  service — often  lunched  in  his  office 
and  sometimes  invited  men  whom  he  wanted  to 
see  on  business,  to  lunch  with  him.  They  re- 
ported that  the  meals  they  ate  were  uncommonly 
good,  as  the  meals  of  a  Minister  of  State  cer- 
tainly ought  to  be.  It  was  no  doubt  in  this  way 
that  the  slanderous  story  about  the  chef  arose 
and  gained  currency.  Gorman  did  not  believe 
it,  because  he  knew  that  the  Feodora  chef  had 
gone  to  Beaufort's  Hotel  when  the  other  was 
taken  over  by  the  Government.  But  Gorman 
fully  expected  a  good  luncheon,  nicely  served  in 
one  of  the  five  rooms  set  apart  for  Sir  Bartholo- 
mew's use  in  the  hotel. 

He  was  not  disappointed.  The  sole  was  all  that 
anyone  could  ask.  The  salmi  which  followed  it 
was  good,  and  even  the  Feodora  chef  could  not 
have  sent  up  a  better  rum  omelette. 

Sir  Bartholomew  was  wearing  a  canary-col- 
oured waistcoat  with  mother-of-pearl  buttons. 


176  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

K  seemed  to  Gorman  that  the  expanse  of  yellow 
broadened  as  luncheon  went  on.  Perhaps  it 
actually  did.  Perhaps  an  atmosphere  of  illusion 
was  created  by  the  port  which  followed  an  ex- 
cellent bottle  of  sauterne.  Yellow  is  a  cheerful 
colour,  and  Sir  Bartholomew's  waistcoat  in- 
creased the  vague  feeling  of  hopeful  well-being 
which  the  luncheon  produced. 

"Affairs  in  the  Near  East,"  said  Sir  Bar- 
tholomew, "are  at  present  in  a  critical  position." 

"Always  are,  aren't  they?"  said  Gorman. 
"Some  affairs  are  like  that,  Irish  affairs  for  in- 
stance." 

Sir  Bartholomew  frowned  slightly.  He  hated 
levity.  Then  the  good  wine  triumphing  over 
the  dignity  of  the  bureaucrat,  he  smiled  again. 

"You  Irishmen!"  he  said.  "No  subject  is 
serious  for  you.  That  is  your  great  charm.  But 
I  assure  you,  Mr.  Gorman,  that  we  are  at  this 
moment  passing  through  a  crisis." 

"If  there's  anything  I  can  do  to  help  you — " 
said  Gorman.  "A  crisis  is  nothing  to  me.  I 
have  lived  all  my  life  in  the  middle  of  one. 
That's  the  worst  of  Ireland.  Crisis  is  her  nor- 
mal condition." 

"I  think "  Sir  Bartholomew  lowered  his 

voice  although  there  was  no  one  in  the  room  to 


THE  EMERALD  PENDANT      177 

overhear  him.  "I  think,  Mr.  Gorman,  that  you 
are  acquainted  with  the  present  King  of  Me- 
galia." 

"If  you  mean  Konrad  Karl,"  said  Gorman, 
"I  should  call  him  the  late  king.  They  had  a  rev- 
olution there,  you  know,  and  hunted  him  out, 
I  believe  Megalia  is  a  republic  now." 

"None  of  the  Great  Powers,"  said  Sir  Bar- 
tholomew, "has  ever  recognised  the  Republic  of 
Megalia." 

He  spoke  as  if  what  he  said  disposed  of  the 
Megalians  finally.  The  front  of  his  yellow 
waistcoat  expanded  when  he  mentioned  the 
Great  Powers.  This  was  only  proper.  A  man 
who  speaks  with  authority  about  Great  Powers 
ought  to  swell  a  little. 

"The  Megalian  people,"  he  went  on,  "have 
hitherto  preserved  a  strict  neutrality." 

"So  the  king  gave  me  to  understand,"  said 
Gorman.  "He  says  his  late  subjects  go  about 
and  plunder  their  neighbours  impartially.  They 
don't  mind  a  bit  which  side  anybody  is  on  so  long 
as  there  is  a  decent  chance  of  loot." 

"The  Megalians,"  said  Sir  Bartholomew,  "are 
a  fighting  race,  and  in  the  critical  position  of 
Balkan  Affairs — a  delicate  equipoise — "  He 
seemed  taken  with  the  phrase  for  he  repeated  it 


178  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

— "A  remarkably  delicate  equipoise — the  inter- 
vention of  the  Megalian  Army  would  turn  the 
scale  and — I  feel  certain — decide  the  issue.  All 
that  is  required  to  secure  the  action  of  the  Me- 
galians  is  the  presence  in  the  country  of  a  leader, 
someone  whom  the  people  know  and  recognise, 
someone  who  can  appeal  to  the  traditional 
loyalty  of  a  chivalrous  race,  in  short " 

"You  can't  be  thinking  of  the  late  king?"  said 
Gorman.  "They're  not  the  least  loyal  to  him. 
They  deposed  him,  you  know.  In  fact  by  his 
account — I  wasn't  there  myself  at  the  time — 
but  he  told  me  that  they  tried  to  hang  him.  He 
says  that  if  they  ever  catch  him  they  certainly 
will  hang  him.  He  doesn't  seem  to  have  hit  it 
off  with  them." 

Sir  Bartholomew  waved  these  considerations 
aside. 

"An  emotional  and  excitable  people,"  he  said, 
"but,  believe  me,  Mr.  Gorman,  warm-hearted, 
and  capable  of  devotion  to  a  trusted  leader. 
They  will  rally  round  the  king,  if ' 

"I'm  not  at  all  sure,"  said  Gorman,  "that  the 
king  will  care  about  going  there  to  be  rallied 
round.  It's  a  risk,  whatever  you  say." 

"I  appreciate  that  point,"  said  Sir  Bartholo- 
mew. "Indeed  it  is  just  because  I  appreciate 


THE  EMERALD  PE1STDANT      179 

it  so  fully  that  I  am  asking  for  your  advice  and 
help,  Mr.  Gorman.  You  know  the  king.  You 
are,  I  may  say,  his  friend." 

"Pretty  nearly  the  only  friend  he  has,"  said 
Gorman. 

"Exactly.  Now  I,  unfortunately — I  fear  that 
the  king  rather  dislikes  me." 

"You  weren't  at  all  civil  to  him  when  he 
offered  you  the  Order  of  the  Pink  Vulture ;  but 
I  don't  think  he  has  any  grudge  against  you  on 
that  account.  He's  not  the  sort  of  man  who 
bears  malice.  The  real  question  is — what  is  the 
king  to  get  out  of  it?  What  are  you  offering 
him?" 

"The  Allies,"  said  Sir  Bartholomew,  "would 
recognise  him  as  the  King  of  Megalia,  and — er 
— of  course,  support  him." 

"I  don't  think  he'd  thank  you  for  that,"  said 
Gorman,  "but  you  can  try  him  if  you  like." 

Sir  Bartholomew,  on  reflection,  was  inclined 
to  agree  with  Gorman.  Mere  recognition, 
though  agreeable  to  any  king,  is  unsubstantial, 
and  the  support  suggested  was  evidently  doubt- 
ful. 

"What  else  ?"  He  spoke  in  a  very  confidential 
tone.  "What  other  inducement  would  you  sug- 


180  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

gest  our  offering?  We  are  prepared  to  go  a 
long  way — to  do  a  good  deal " 

"Unfortunately  for  you,"  said  Gorman,  "the 
king  is  pretty  well  off  at  present.  He  got 
£6,000  three  weeks  ago  out  of  Bilkins — the  man 
who  ran  the  egg  swindle — and  until  that's  spent 
he  won't  feel  the  need  of  money.  If  you  could 
wait  six  weeks — I'm  sure  he'll  be  on  the  rocks 
again  in  six  weeks — and  then  offer  a  few  thou- 
sand  " 

"But  we  can't  wait,"  said  Sir  Bartholomew. 
"Affairs  in  the  Near  East  are  most  critical.  Un- 
less the  Megalian  Army  acts  at  once " 

"In  that  case,"  said  Gorman,  "the  only  thing 
for  you  to  do  is  to  try  Madame  Ypsilante." 

"That  woman!"  said  Sir  Bartholomew.  "I 
really  cannot —  You  must  see,  Mr.  Gorman, 
that  for  a  man  in  my  position " 

"Is  there  a  Lady  Bland-Potterton?"  said  Gor- 
man. "I  didn't  know." 

"I'm  not  married,"  said  Sir  Bartholomew. 
"When  I  speak  of  my  position — I  mean  my 
position  as  a  member  of  the  Government " 

"Madame  has  immense  influence  with  the 
king,"  said  Gorman. 

"Yes.  Yes.  But  the  woman— the — er — lady 
has  no  recognised  status.  She " 


THE  EMERALD  PENDANT   181 

"Just  at  present,"  said  Gorman,  "she  is  tre- 
mendously keen  on  emeralds.  She  has  got  a  new 
evening  dress  from  Emile  and  there's  nothing 
she  wants  more  than  an  emerald  pendant  to 
wear  with  it.  I'm  sure  she'd  do  her  best  to  per- 
suade the  king  to  go  hack  to  Megalia  if " 

"But  I  don't  think—"  said  Sir  Bartholomew. 
"Really,  Mr.  Gorman " 

"I'm  not  suggesting  that  you  should  pay  for 
it  yourself,"  said  Gorman.  "Charge  it  up 
against  the  Civil  List  or  the  Secret  Service 
Fund,  or  work  it  in  under  'Advances  to  our 
Allies.'  There  must  be  some  way  of  doing  it, 
and  I  really  think  it's  your  best  chance." 

Sir  Bartholomew  talked  for  nearly  an  hour. 
He  explained  several  times  that  it  was  totally 
impossible  for  him  to  negotiate  with  Madame 
Ypsilante.  The  idea  of  bribing  her  with  an 
emerald  pendant  shocked  him  profoundly.  But 
he  was  bent  on  getting  King  Konrad  Karl  to  go 
back  to  Megalia.  That  seemed  to  him  a  matter 
of  supreme  importance  for  England,  for  Europe 
and  the  world.  In  the  end,  after  a  great  deal  of 
consultation,  a  plan  suggested  itself.  Madame 
should  have  her  emeralds  sent  to  her  anony- 
mously. Gorman  undertook  to  explain  to  her 
that  she  was  expected,  by  way  of  payment  for 


182  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

the  emeralds,  to  persuade  the  king  to  go  back  to 
Megalia  and  once  more  occupy  the  throne.  Sir 
Bartholomew  Bland-Potterton  would  appear  at 
the  last  moment  as  the  accredited  representative 
of  the  Allied  Governments,  and  formally  lay  be- 
fore the  king  the  proposal  for  the  immediate 
mobilisation  of  the  Megalian  Army. 

"I  shall  have  a  lot  of  work  and  worry,"  said 
Gorman,  "and  I'm  not  asking  anything  for  my- 
self; but  if  the  thing  comes  off " 

"You  can  command  the  gratitude  of  the  Cab- 
inet," said  Sir  Bartholomew,  "and  anything 
they  can  do  for  you — an  O.B.E.,  now,  or  even  a 
knighthood " 

"No  thank  you,"  said  Gorman,  "but  if  you 
could  see  your  way  to  starting  a  few  munition 
works  in  Upper  Offaly,  my  constituency,  you 
know.  The  people  are  getting  discontented,  and 
I'm  not  at  all  sure  that  they'll  return  me  at  the 
next  election  unless  something  is  done  for  them 
now." 

"You  shall  have  an  aeroplane  factory,"  said 
Sir  Bartholomew,  "two  in  fact.  I  think  I  may 
safely  promise  two — and  shells — would  your 
people  care  for  making  shells?" 

The  plan  worked  out  exceedingly  well.  The 
pendant  which  Madame  Ypsilante  received  was 


THE  EMERALD  PENDANT      183 

very  handsome.  It  contained  fourteen  stones  of 
unusual  size  set  in  circles  of  small  diamonds. 
She  was  delighted,  and  thoroughly  understood 
what  was  expected  of  her.  A  Government  en- 
gineer went  down  to  Upper  Offaly,  and  secured, 
at  enormous  expense,  sites  for  three  large  fac- 
tories. The  men  who  leased  the  land  were 
greatly  pleased,  everyone  else  looked  forward 
to  a  period  of  employment  at  very  high  wages, 
and  Gorman  became  very  popular  even  among 
the  extreme  Sinn  Feiners.  Sir  Bartholomew 
Bland-Potterton  went  about  London,  purring 
with  satisfaction  like  a  large  cat,  and  promising 
sensational  events  in  the  Near  East  which  would 
rapidly  bring  the  war  to  an  end.  Only  King 
Konrad  Karl  was  a  little  sad. 

"Gorman,  my  friend,"  he  said,  "I  go  back  to 
that  thrice  damned  country  and  I  die.  They 
will  hang  me  by  the  neck  until  I  am  dead  as  a 
door  mat." 

"They  may  not,"  said  Gorman.  "You  can't 
be  certain." 

"You  do  not  know  Megalia,"  said  the  king. 
"It  is  sure,  Gorman,  what  you  would  call  a  dead 
shirt.  But  Corinne,  my  beloved  Corinne,  says 
'Go.  Be  a  king  once  more.'  And  I — I  ana  a 
blackguard,  Gorman.  I  know  it.  I  am  not  re- 


184  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

spectable.  I  know  it.  But  I  am  a  lover.  I  am 
capable  of  a  great  passion.  I  wave  my  hand.  I 
smile.  I  kiss  Corinne.  I  face  the  tune  of  the 
band.  I  say  'Behold,  damn  it,  and  Great  Scott! 
— at  the  bidding  of  Corinne,  I  die.'  " 

"If  I  were  you,"  said  Gorman,  "I'd  conscript 
every  able-bodied  man  in  the  country  directly  I 
got  there  and  put  the  entire  lot  into  a  front  line 
trench.  There  won't  be  anyone  left  to  assas- 
sinate you  then." 

"Alas!  There  are  the  Generals  and  the  Staff. 
It  is  not  possible,  Gorman,  even  in  Megalia,  to 
put  the  Staff  into  a  trench,  and  that  is  enough. 
One  General  only  and  his  Staff.  They  come  to 
the  palace.  They  say  'In  the  name  of  the  Re- 
public, so  that  the  world  may  be  safe  for  de- 
mocracy— '  and  then — !  There  is  a  rope.  There 
is  a  flag  staff.  I  float  in  the  air.  They  cheer.  I 
am  dead.  I  know  it.  But  it  is  for  Corinne. 
Good." 

It  was  in  this  mood  of  chivalrous  high  romance 
that  the  king  received  Sir  Bartholomew  Bland- 
Potterton.  Gorman  was  present  during  the  in- 
terview. He  had  made  a  special  effort,  post- 
poning an  important  engagement,  in  order  to 
hear  what  was  said.  He  expected  to  be  in- 
terested and  amused.  He  was  not  disappointed. 


THE  EMERALD  PENDANT      185 

Sir  Bartholomew  Bland-Potterton  was  at  his 
very  best.  He  made  a  long  speech  about  the 
sacred  cause  of  European  civilisation,  and  the 
supremely  important  part  which  the  King  of 
Megalia  was  called  upon  to  play  in  securing 
victory  and  lasting  peace.  He  also  talked  about 
the  rights  of  small  nationalities.  King  Konrad 
Karl  rose  to  the  same  level  of  lofty  sentiment 
in  his  reply.  He  went  further  than  Sir  Bar- 
tholomew for  he  talked  about  democracy  in 
terms  which  were  affectionate,  a  rather  surpris- 
ing thing  for  a  monarch  whose  power,  when  he 
had  it,  was  supposed  to  be  absolute. 

"I  go,"  he  said.  "If  necessary  I  offer  up  my- 
self as  a  fatted  calf,  a  sacrifice,  a  burnt  ewe  lamb 
upon  the  altar  of  liberty.  I  say  to  the  people — 
to  my  people  'Damn  it,  cut  off  my  head.'  It's 
what  they  will  do." 

"Dear  me,"  said  Sir  Bartholomew.  "Dear 
me.  I  trust  not.  I  hope  not.  You  will  have 
the  support,  the  moral  support,  of  all  the  Allies. 
I  should  be  sorry  to  think — we  should  all  be 
sorry " 

The  king,  who  was  standing  in  the  middle  of 
the  hearthrug,  struck  a  fine  attitude,  laying  his 
hand  on  his  breast. 

"It  will  be  as  I  say,"  he  said.     "Gorman 


186  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

knows.  Corinne,  though  she  says  'No,  no, 
never,'  she  knows.  The  people  of  Megalia,  what 
are  they?  I  will  tell  you.  Butchers  and  pigs. 
Pork  butchers.  To  them  it  is  sport  to  kill  a  king. 
But  you  say  'Go,'  and  Gorman  says  'Go.'  And 
the  cause  of  Europe  says  'Go.'  And  Corinne 
she  also.  Good.  The  Prime  Minister  of  Me- 
galia trots  out  his  hatchet.  I  say  'By  Jove,  here 
is  my  neck.' " 

Sir  Bartholomew  Bland-Potterton  was 
greatly  affected.  He  even  promised  that  a 
British  submarine  would  patrol  the  Megalian 
coast  with  a  view  to  securing  the  king's  safety. 
He  might  perhaps  have  gone  on  to  offer  a  squad- 
ron of  aeroplanes  by  way  of  body-guard,  but 
while  he  was  speaking,  Madame  burst  into  the 
room. 

She  was  evidently  highly  excited.  Her  face, 
beneath  its  coating  of  powder,  was  flushed.  Her 
eyes  were  unusually  bright.  Her  hair — a  most 
unusual  thing  with  her — appeared  to  be  coming 
down.  She  rushed  straight  to  the  king  and  flung 
her  arms  round  his  neck. 

"Konrad,"  she  said,  "my  Konrad.  You  shall 
not  go  to  Megalia.  Never,  never  will  I  say  'Be 
a  King.'  Never  shall  you  live  with  those  so  bar- 


THE  EMERALD  PENDANT      187 

barous  people.  I  said  'Go.'  I  admit  it.  I  was 
wrong,  my  Konrad.  Behold!" 

She  released  the  king  from  her  embrace, 
fumbled  in  her  handbag  and  drew  out  a  small 
leather  case.  She  opened  it,  took  out  a  magnifi- 
cent looking  pendant.  She  flung  it  on  the 
ground  and  trampled  on  it.  Gorman  stepped 
forward  to  rescue  the  emeralds. 

"Don't  do  that,"  he  said.  "Hang  it  all! 
Don't.  Give  the  thing  back  if  you  like,  but 
don't  destroy  it.  Those  stones  must  be  im- 
mensely valuable." 

"Valuable!"  Madame's  voice  rose  to  a  shriek. 
"What  is  valuable  compared  to  the  safety  of  my 
Konrad?  Valuable?  They  are  worth  ten 
pounds.  Ten  pounds,  Gorman!  I  took  them  to 
Goldstein  to-day.  He  knows  jewels,  that  Gold- 
stein. He  is  expert  and  he  said  'They  are  shams. 
They  are  worth — at  most  ten  pounds.'  " 

Gorman  stared  for  a  moment  at  the  stones 
which  lay  on  the  floor  in  their  crushed  setting. 
Then  he  turned  to  Sir  Bartholomew. 

"You  don't  mean  to  say,"  he  said,  "that  you 

were  such  a  d d  ass  as  to  send  Madame  sham 

stones?" 

Sir  Bartholomew's  face  was  a  sufficient  answer 


188  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

to  the  question.  Gorman  took  him  by  the  arm 
and  led  him  out  of  the  room  without  a  word. 

"You'd  better  go  home,"  he  said.  "Madame 
iYpsilante  is  violent  when  roused,  and  it  is  not 
safe  for  you  to  stay.  But  how  could  you  have 
been  such  an  idiot !" 

"I  never  thought  of  her  having  the  stones 
valued,"  said  Sir  Bartholomew. 

"Of  course  she  had  them  valued,"  said  Gor- 
man. "Anyone  else  in  the  world  would  have 
known  that  she'd  be  sure  to  have  them  valued. 
Of  all  the  besotted  imbeciles — and  they  call  you 
a  statesman!" 

Sir  Bartholomew,  having  got  safely  into  the 
street,  began  to  recover  a  little,  and  attempted 
a  defence  of  himself. 

"But,"  he  said,  "a  pendant  like  that — emer- 
alds of  that  size  are  enormously  expensive.  The 
Government  would  not  have  sanctioned  it. 
After  all,  Mr.  Gorman,  we  are  bound  to  be  par- 
ticularly careful  about  the  expenditure  of  public 
funds.  It  is  one  of  the  proudest  traditions  of 
British  statesmanship  that  it  is  scrupulously  hon- 
ourable even  to  the  point  of  being  niggardly  in 
sanctioning  the  expenditure  of  the  tax-payer's 
money." 

"Good  Lord!"  said  Gorman.    "I  didn't  think 


THE  EMERALD  PENDANT      189 

— I  really  did  not  think  that  I  could  be  surprised 
by  anything  in  politics — But  when  you  talk  to 
me — You  oughtn't  to  do  it,  Potterton.  You 
really  ought  not.  Public  funds.  Tax-payers' 
money.  Scrupulously  honourable,  and — nig- 
gardly. Good  Lord!" 


XI 

SETTLED  OUT  OF  COURT 

THERE  are  many  solicitors  in  London 
who  make  larger  incomes  than  Mr. 
Dane-Latimer,  though  he  does  very  well 
and  pays  a  considerable  sum  every  year  by  way 
of  super-tax.  There  are  certainly  solicitors  with 
firmly  established  family  practices,  whose  posi- 
tion is  more  secure  than  Mr.  Dane-Latimer's. 
And  there  are  some  whose  reputation  stands 
higher  in  legal  circles.  But  there  is  probably  no 
solicitor  whose  name  is  better  known  all  over  the 
British  Isles  than  Mr.  Dane-Latimer's.  He  has 
been  fortunate  enough  to  become  a  kind  of 
specialist  in  "Society"  cases.  No  divorce  suit 
can  be  regarded  as  really  fashionable  unless  Mr. 
Dane-Latimer  is  acting  in  it  for  plaintiff,  de- 
fendant, or  co-respondent.  A  politician  who  has 
been  libelled  goes  to  Mr.  Dane-Latimer  for  ad- 
vice. An  actress  with  a  hopeful  breach  of  prom- 
ise case  takes  the  incriminating  letters  to  Mr. 
Dane-Latimer.  He  knows  the  facts  of  nearly 
every  exciting  scandal.  He  can  fill  in  the  gaps 

190 


SETTLED  OUT  OF  COURT      191 

which  the  newspapers  necessarily  leave  even  in 
stories  which  spread  themselves  over  columns 
of  print.  What  is  still  better,  he  can  tell  stories 
which  never  get  into  the  papers  at  all,  the  stories 
of  cases  so  thrilling  that  the  people  concerned 
settle  them  out  of  court. 

It  will  easily  be  understood  that  Mr.  Dane- 
Latimer  is  an  interesting  man  to  meet  and  that 
a  good  many  people  welcome  the  chance  of  a 
talk  with  him. 

Gorman,  who  has  a  cultivated  taste  for  gossip, 
was  greatly  pleased  when  Dane-Latimer  sat 
down  beside  him  one  day  in  the  smoking-room 
of  his  club.  It  was  two  o'clock,  an  hour  at  which 
the  smoking-room  is  full  of  men  who  have 
lunched.  Gorman  knew  that  Dane-Latimer 
would  not  talk  in  an  interesting  way  before  a 
large  audience,  but  he  hoped  to  be  able  to  keep 
him  until  most  of  the  other  men  had  left.  He 
beckoned  to  the  waitress  and  ordered  two  coffees 
and  two  liqueur  brandies.  Then  he  set  himself 
to  be  as  agreeable  as  possible  to  Dane-Latimer. 

"Haven't  seen  you  for  a  long  time,"  he  said. 
"What  have  you  been  doing?  Had  the  flu?" 

"Flu!    No.    Infernally  busy,  that's  all." 

"Really,"  said  Gorman.  "I  should  have 
thought  the  present  slump  would  have  meant 


192  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

rather  a  slack  time  for  you.  People — I  mean 
the  sort  of  people  whose  affairs  you  manage — 
can't  be  going  it  in  quite  the  old  way,  at  all 
events  not  to  the  same  extent." 

Dane-Latimer  poured  half  his  brandy  into  his 
coffee  cup  and  smiled.  Gorman,  who  felt  it  nec- 
essary to  keep  the  conversation  going,  wandered 
on. 

"But  perhaps  they  are.  After  all,  these  war 
marriages  must  lead  to  a  good  many  divorces, 
though  we  don't  read  about  them  as  much  as  we 
used  to.  But  I  dare  say  they  go  on  just  the 
same  and  you  have  plenty  to  do." 

Dane-Latimer  grinned.  He  beckoned  to  the 
waitress  and  ordered  two  more  brandies.  Gor- 
man talked  on.  One  after  another  the  men  in 
the  smoking-room  got  up  and  went  away.  At 
three  o'clock  there  was  no  one  left  within  ear- 
shot of  Gorman  and  Dane-Latimer.  A  couple 
of  Heads  of  Government  Departments  and  a 
Staff  Officer  still  sat  on  at  the  far  end  of  the 
room,  but  they  were  busy  with  a  conversation  of 
their  own  about  a  new  kind  of  self-starter  for 
motor  cars.  Dane-Latimer  began  to  talk  at  last. 

"The  fact  is,"  he  said,  "I  shouldn't  have  been 
here  to-day — I  certainly  shouldn't  be  sitting 


SETTLED  OUT  OF  COURT      193 

smoking  at  this  hour  if  I  hadn't  wanted  to  talk 
to  you." 

Gorman  chuckjed  pleasantly.  He  felt  that 
something  interesting  was  coming. 

"I've  rather  a  queer  case  on  hand,"  said  Dane- 
Latimer,  "and  some  friends  of  yours  are  mixed 
up  in  it,  at  least  I  think  I'm  right  in  saying  that 
that  picturesque  blackguard  Konrad  Karl  of 
Megalia  is  a  friend  of  yours." 

"I  hope  he's  not  the  co-respondent,"  said  Gor- 
man. 

"No.  No.  It's  nothing  of  that  sort.  In  fact, 
strictly  speaking,  he's  not  in  it  at  all.  No  legal 
liability.  The  action  threatened  is  against  Ma- 
dame Ypsilante." 

"Don't  say  shop  lifting,"  said  Gorman.  "I've 
always  been  afraid  she's  take  to  that  sooner  or 
later.  Not  that  she's  a  dishonest  woman.  Don't 
think  that.  It's  simply  that  she  can't  under- 
stand, is  constitutionally  incapable  of  seeing  any 
reason  why  she  shouldn't  have  anything  she 
wants." 

"You  may  make  your  mind  easy,"  said  Dane- 
Latimer.  "It's  not  shop-lifting.  In  fact  it  isn't 
anything  that  would  be  called  really  disgrace- 
ful." 

"That  surprises  me.     I  should  hardly  have 


194.  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

thought  Madame  could  have  avoided — but  go 
on." 

"You  know  Scarsby?"  said  Dane-Latimer. 

"I  know  a  Mrs.  Scarsby,  a  woman  who  adver- 
tises herself  and  her  parties  and  pushes  hard  to 
get  into  the  smartest  set.  She's  invited  me  to 
one  of  her  shows  next  week.  Very  seldom  does 
now,  though  I  used  to  go  there  pretty  often. 
She  has  rather  soared  lately,  higher  circles  than 
those  I  move  in." 

"That's  the  wife  of  the  man  I  mean." 

"Never  knew  she  had  a  husband,"  said  Gor- 
man. "She  keeps  him  very  dark.  But  that  sort 
of  woman  often  keeps  her  husband  in  the  back- 
ground. I  suppose  he  exists  simply  to  earn  what 
she  spends." 

"That's  it.  He's  a  dentist.  I  rather  wonder 
you  haven't  heard  of  him.  He's  quite  at  the  top 
of  the  tree;  the  sort  of  dentist  who  charges  two 
guineas  for  looking  at  your  front  tooth  and  an 
extra  guinea  if  he  tells  you  there's  a  hole  in  it." 

"I  expect  he  needs  it  all,"  said  Gorman,  "to 
keep  Mrs.  Searsby  going.  But  what  the  devil 
has  he  got  to  do  with  Madame  Ypsilante.  I 
can't  imagine  her  compromising  herself  with  a 
man  whose  own  wife  is  ashamed  to  produce  him." 

Dane-Latimer  smiled. 


SETTLED  OUT  OF  COURT      195 

"I  told  you  it  was  nothing  of  that  sort,"  he 
said.  "In  fact  it's  quite  the  opposite.  Madame 
went  to  him  as  a  patient  in  the  ordinary  way, 
and  he  started  to  put  a  gold  filling  into  one  of 
her  teeth.  She  was  infernally  nervous  and  made 
him  swear  beforehand  that  he  wouldn't  hurt  her. 
She  brought  Konrad  Karl  with  her  and  he  held 
one  of  her  hands.  There  was  a  sort  of  nurse,  a 
woman  whom  Scarsby  always  has  on  the  prem- 
ises, who  held  her  other  hand.  I  mention  this 
to  show  you  that  there  were  plenty  of  witnesses 
present,  and  it  won't  be  any  use  denying  the 
facts.  Well,  Scarsby  went  to  work  in  the  usual 
way  with  one  of  those  infernal  drill  things  which 
they  work  with  their  feet.  He  had  her  right 
back  in  the  chair  and  was  standing  more  or  less 
in  front  of  her.  He  says  he's  perfectly  certain 
he  didn't  hurt  her  in  the  least,  but  I  think  he 
must  have  got  down  to  a  nerve  or  something 
without  knowing  it.  Anyhow  Madame — she 
couldn't  use  her  hands  you  know — gave  a  sort 
of  twist,  got  her  foot  against  his  chest  and  kicked 
him  clean  across  the  room." 

"I'd  give  five  pounds  to  have  been  there,"  said 
Gorman. 

"It  must  have  been  a  funny  sight.  Scarsby 
clutched  at  everything  as  he  passed.  He  brought 


196  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

down  the  drilling  machine  and  a  table  covered 
with  instruments  in  his  fall.  He  strained  his 
wrist  and  now  he  wants  to  take  an  action  for  a 
thousand  pounds  damages  against  Madame." 

"Silly  ass,"  said  Gorman.  "He  might  just  as 
well  take  an  action  against  me  for  a  million. 
Madame  hasn't  got  a  thousand  pence  in  the 
world." 

"So  I  thought,"  said  Dane-Latimer,  "and  so 
I  told  him.  As  a  matter  of  fact  I  happen  to 
know  that  Madame  is  pretty  heavily  in  debt." 

"Besides,"  said  Gorman.  "He  richly  deserved 
what  he  got.  Any  man  who  is  fool  enough  to  go 
monkeying  about  with  Madame  Ypsilante's 
teeth — you've  seen  her,  I  suppose." 

"Oh,  yes.     Several  times." 

"Well  then  you  can  guess  the  sort  of  woman 
she  is.  And  anyone  who  had  ever  looked  at  her 
eyes  would  know.  I'd  just  as  soon  twist  a  tiger's 
tail  as  try  to  drill  a  hole  in  one  of  Madame  Yp- 
silante's teeth.  Scarsby  must  have  known 
there'd  be  trouble." 

"I'm  afraid  the  judge  won't  take  that  view," 
said  Dane-Latimer,  smiling. 

"He  ought  to  call  it  justifiable  self-defence. 
He  will  too  if  he's  ever  had  one  of  those  drills 
in  his  own  mouth." 


SETTLED  OUT  OF  COURT      197 

"As  a  lawyer,"  said  Dane-Latimer,  "I'd  like 
to  see  this  action  fought  out.  I  don't  remember 
a  ease  quite  like  it,  and  it  would  be  exceedingly 
interesting  to  see  what  view  the  Court  would 
take.  But  of  course  I'm  bound  to  work  for  my 
client's  interest,  and  I'm  advising  Scarsby  to 
settle  it  if  he  can.  He's  in  a  vile  temper  and 
there's  no  doubt  he  really  is  losing  money 
through  not  being  able  to  work  with  his  strained 
wrist.  Still,  if  Madame,  or  the  king  on  her  be- 
half, would  make  any  sort  of  offer — She  may  not 
have  any  money,  Gorman,  but  everybody  knows 
she  has  jewellery." 

"Do  you  really  think,"  said  Gorman,  "that 
Madame  will  sell  her  pearls  to  satisfy  the  claims 
of  a  dentist  who,  so  far  as  I  can  make  out,  didn't 
even  finish  stopping  her  tooth  for  her?" 

"The  law  might  make  her." 

"The  law  couldn't,"  said  Gorman.  "You 
know  perfectly  well  that  if  the  law  tried  she'd 
simply  say  that  her  jewellery  belonged  to  King 
Konrad  and  you've  no  kind  of  claim  on  him." 

"That's  so,"  said  Dane-Latimer.  "All  the 
same  it  won't  be  very  nice  if  the  case  comes  into 
court.  Madame  had  far  better  settle  it.  Just 
think  of  the  newspapers.  They'll  crack  silly 
jokes  about  it  for  weeks  and  there'll  be  pictures 


198  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

of  Madame  in  most  undignified  attitudes.  She 
won't  like  it." 

"I  see  that,"  said  Gorman.  "And  of  course 
Konrad  Karl  will  be  dragged  in  and  made  to 
look  like  a  fool." 

"Kings  of  all  people,"  said  Dane-Latimer, 
"can't  afford  to  he  laughed  at.  It  doesn't  do  a 
king  any  real  harm  if  he's  hated,  but  if  once  he 
becomes  comic  he's  done." 

Gorman  thought  the  matter  over  for  a  minute 
or  two. 

"I'll  tell  you  what,"  he  said  at  last.  "You 
hold  the  dentist  in  play  for  a  day  or  two  and  I'll 
see  what  I  can  do.  There'll  be  no  money.  I 
warn  you  fairly  of  that.  You  won't  even  get 
the  amount  of  your  own  bill  unless  Scarsby  pays 
it;  but  I  may  be  able  to  fix  things  up." 

It  was  not  very  easy  for  Gorman  to  deal  with 
Madame  Ypsilante.  Her  point  was  that  Scars- 
by had  deliberately  inflicted  frightful  pain  on 
her,  breaking  his  plighted  word  and  taking  ad- 
vantage of  her  helpless  position. 

"He  is  a  devil,  that  man,"  she  said.  "Never, 
never  in  life  has  there  been  any  such  devil.  I 
did  right  to  kick  him.  It  would  be  more  right 
to  kick  his  mouth.  But  I  am  not  a  dancer.  I 
cannot  kick  so  high." 


SETTLED  OUT  OF  COURT      199 

"Corinne,"  said  the  king.  "You  have  suffered. 
He  has  suffered.  It  is,  as  the  English  say  in 
the  game  of  golf  'lie  as  you  like.'  Let  us  forgive 
and  regret." 

"I  do  not  regret,"  said  Madame,  "except  that 
I  did  not  kick  with  both  feet.  I  do  not  regret, 
and  I  will  not  forgive." 

"The  trouble  is,"  said  Gorman,  "that  the  den- 
tist won't  forgive  either.  He's  talking  of  a  thou- 
sand pounds  damage." 

Madame's  face  softened. 

"If  he  will  pay  a  thousand  pounds — "  she  said. 
"It  is  not  much.  It  is  not  enough.  Still,  if  he 
pays  at  once " 

"You've  got  it  wrong,"  said  Gorman.  "He 
thinks  you  ought  to  pay.  He's  going  to  law 
about  it." 

"Law!"  said  Madame.  "Pouf !  What  is  your 
law?  I  spit  at  it.  It  is  to  laugh  at,  the  law." 

The  king  took  a  different  view.  He  knew  by 
painful  experience  something  about  law,  chiefly 
that  part  of  the  law  which  deals  with  the  rela- 
tions of  creditor  and  debtor.  He  was  seriously 
alarmed  at  what  Gorman  said. 

"Alas,  Corinne,"  he  said,  "in  Megalia,  yes. 
But  in  England,  no.  The  English  law  is  to  me 
a  black  beast.  With  the  law  I  am  always  the 


200  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

escaping  goat  who  does  not  escape.  Gorman,  I 
love  your  England.  But  there  is,  as  you  say,  a 
shift  in  the  flute.  In  England  there  is  too  much 
law.  Do  not,  do  not  let  the  dentist  go  to  law. 
Rather  would  I " 

"I  will  not  pay,"  said  Madame. 

"Corinne,"  said  the  king  reproachfully, 
"would  I  ask  it?  No.  But  if  the  dentist  seeks 
revenge  I  will  submit.  He  may  kick  me." 

"That's  rot  of  course,"  said  Gorman.  "It 
wouldn't  be  the  slightest  satisfaction  to  Scarsby 
to  kick  you.  What  I  was  going  to  suggest " 

"Good!"  said  the  king.  "Right-O!  O.K.! 
Put  it  there.  You  suggest.  Always,  Gorman, 
you  suggest,  and  when  you  suggest,  it  is  all  over 
except  to  shout." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  said  Gorman. 
"My  plan  may  not  work,  and  anyway  you  won't 
like  it.  It's  not  an  agreeable  plan  at  all.  The 
only  thing  to  be  said  for  it  is  that  it's  better  than 
paying  or  having  any  more  kicking.  You'll 
have  to  put  yourself  in  my  hands  absolutely." 

"Gorman,  my  friend,"  said  the  king,  "I  go  in 
your  hands.  In  both  hands  or  in  one  hand. 
Rather  than  be  plaintiff-defendant  I  say  'Gor- 
man, I  will  go  in  your  pocket.'  " 

"In  your  hands,"  said  Madame,  "or  in  your 


SETTLED  OUT  OF  COURT      201 

arms.  Sir  Gorman,  I  trust  you.  I  give  you 
my  Konrad  into  your  hands.  I  fling  myself  into 
your  arms  if  you  wish  it." 

"I  don't  wish  it  in  the  least,"  said  Gorman. 
"In  fact  it  will  complicate  things  horribly  if 
you  do." 

Three  days  later  Gorman  called  on  Dane- 
Latimer  at  his  office. 

"I  think,"  he  said,  "that  I've  got  that  little 
trouble  between  Madame  Ypsilante  and  the 
dentist  settled  up  all  right." 

"Are  you  sure  ?"  said  Dane-Latimer.  "Scarsby 
is  still  in  a  furious  temper.  At  least  he  was  the 
day  before  yesterday.  I  haven't  seen  him  since 
then." 

"You  won't  see  him  again,"  said  Gorman. 
"He  has  completely  climbed  down." 

"How  the  deuce  did  you  manage  it?" 

Gorman  drew  a  heavy  square  envelope  from 
his  breast  pocket  and  handed  it  to  Dane-Lati- 
mer. 

"That's  for  you,"  he  said,  "and  if  you  really 
want  to  understand  how  the  case  was  settled 
you'd  better  accept  the  invitation  and  come  with 
me." 

Dane-Latimore  opened  the  envelope  and  drew 


202  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

out  a  large  white  card  with  gilt  edges  and  nicely 
rounded  corners. 

"10  Beaulieu  Gardens,  S.W."  he  read.  "Mrs. 
J.  de  Montford  Scarsby.  At  Home,  Thursday, 
June  24,  9  to  11.  To  have  the  honour  of  meeting 
His  Majesty  the  King  of  Megalia.  RS.V.P." 

"The  king,"  said  Gorman,  "is  going  in  his 
uniform  as  Field  Marshal  of  the  Megalian 
Army.  It  took  me  half  an  hour  to  persuade  him 
to  do  that,  and  I  don't  wonder.  It's  a  most 
striking  costume — light  blue  silk  blouse,  black 
velvet  gold-embroidered  waistcoat,  white  corded 
breeches,  immense  patent  leather  boots,  a  gold 
chain  as  thick  as  a  cable  of  a  small  yacht  with  a 
dagger  at  the  end  of  it,  and  a  bright  red  fur  cap 
with  a  sham  diamond  star  in  front.  The  poor 
man  will  look  an  awful  ass,  and  feel  it.  I 
wouldn't  have  let  him  in  for  the  uniform  if  I 
could  possibly  have  helped  it,  but  that  brute 
Scarsby  was  as  vindictive  as  a  red  Indian  and  as 
obstinate  as  a  swine.  His  wife  could  do  nothing 
with  him  at  first.  She  came  to  me  with  tears  and 
said  she'd  have  to  give  up  the  idea  of  entertaining 
the  king  at  her  party  if  his  coming  depended  on 
Scarsby's  withdrawing  his  action  against  Ma- 
dame Ypsilante.  I  told  her  to  have  another  try 
and  promised  her  he'd  come  in  uniform  if  she  sue- 


SETTLED  OUT  OF  COURT      203 

ceeded.  That  induced  her  to  tackle  her  husband 
again.  I  don't  know  how  she  managed  it,  but 
she  did.  Scarsby  has  climbed  down  and  doesn't 
even  ask  for  an  apology.  I  advise  you  to  come 
to  the  party." 

"Will  Madame  Ypsilante  be  there?" 

"I  hope  not,"  said  Gorman.  "I  shall  persuade 
her  to  stay  at  home  if  I  can.  I  don't  know 
whether  Scarsby  will  show  up  or  not;  but  it's 
better  to  take  no  risks.  She  might  kick  him 
again." 

"What  I  was  wondering,"  said  Dane-Latimer, 
"was  whether  she'd  kick  me.  She  might  feel  that 
she  ought  to  get  a  bit  of  her  own  back  out  of 
the  plaintiff's  solicitor.  I'm  not  a  tall  man.  She 
could  probably  reach  my  face,  and  I  don't  want 
to  have  Scarsby  mending  up  my  teeth  after- 
wards." 

"My  impression  is,"  said  Gorman,  "that  Mrs. 
Scarsby  would  allow  anyone  to  kick  her  husband 
up  and  down  Piccadilly  if  she  thought  she'd  be 
able,  to  entertain  royalty  afterwards.  I  don't 
think  she  ever  got  higher  than  a  Marquis  before. 
By  the  way,  poor  Konrad  Karl  is  to  have  a 
throne  at  the  end  of  her  drawing-room,  and  I'm 
to  present  her.  You  really  ought  to  come,  Dane- 
Latimer." 


XII 

A  COMPETENT  MECHANIC 

THE  car  swept  across  the  narrow  bridge 
and  round  the  corner  beyond  it.  Geof- 
frey Dane  opened  the  throttle  a  little 
and  allowed  the  speed  to  increase.  The  road 
was  new  to  him,  but  he  had  studied  his  map 
carefully  and  he  knew  that  a  long  hill,  two  miles 
or  more  of  it,  lay  before  him.  His  car  was 
highly  powered  and  the  engine  was  running 
smoothly.  He  looked  forward  to  a  swift,  ex- 
hilarating rush  from  the  river  valley  behind  him 
to  the  plateau  of  the  moorlands  above.  The  road 
was  a  lonely  one.  Since  he  left  a  village,  three 
miles  behind  him,  he  had  met  nothing  but  one 
cart  and  a  couple  of  stray  cattle.  It  was  very 
unlikely  that  he  would  meet  any  troublesome 
traffic  before  he  reached  the  outskirts  of  Hamley, 
the  market  town  six  miles  beyond  the  hill  and  the 
moorland.  The  car  swept  forward,  gathering 
speed.  Geoffrey  Dane  saw  the  hand  of  his 
speedometer  creep  round  the  dial  till  it  showed 
forty  miles  an  hour. 

204 


A  COMPETENT  MECHANIC     205 

Then  rounding  a  bend  in  the  road  he  saw 
another  car  motionless  in  the  very  middle  of  the 
road.  Geoffrey  Dane  swore  abruptly  and  slowed 
down.  He  was  not  compelled  to  stop.  He 
might  have  passed  the  obstructing  car  by  driving 
with  one  wheel  in  the  ditch.  But  he  was  a  young 
man  with  a  troublesome  conscience,  and  he  was 
a  member  of  the  Royal  Automobile  Club.  He 
was  bound  in  honour  to  render  any  help  he  could 
to  motorists  in  distress  on  the  high  road. 

On  a  stone  at  the  side  of  the  road  sat  a  girl, 
smoking  a  cigarette.  She  was,  apparently,  the 
owner  or  driver  of  the  motionless  car.  Geoffrey 
Dane  stopped. 

"Anything  wrong?"  he  asked. 

The  girl  threw  away  the  cigarette  she  was 
smoking  and  stood  up. 

"Everything,"  she  said. 

Geoffrey  Dane  stopped  his  engine  with  a  sigh 
and  got  out  of  his  car.  He  noticed  at  once  that 
the  girl  was  dishevelled,  that  her  face,  particu- 
larly her  nose,  was  smeared  with  dirt,  and  that 
there  was  a  good  deal  of  mud  on  her  frock.  He 
recognised  the  signs  of  a  long  and  useless  strug- 
gle with  an  engine;  but  he  was  too  well  bred  to 
smile.  He  also  noticed  that  the  girl  was  pretty, 
slight  of  figure,  and  fair,  with  twinkling  eyes. 


206  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

This  consoled  him  a  little.  Succouring  a  stranger 
in  distress  on  a  lonely  road  towards  the  close  of 
a  winter  afternoon  is  not  pleasant,  but  it  is  dis- 
tinctly less  unpleasant  if  the  stranger  is  a  pretty 
girl. 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  motors?"  said 
the  girl. 

To  Geoffrey  the  question  was  almost  insult- 
ing. He  was  a  young  man  who  particularly 
prided  himself  on  his  knowledge  of  mechanics 
and  his  skill  in  dealing  with  engines.  Also  the 
girl  spoke  abruptly,  not  at  all  in  the  manner  of 
a  helpless  damsel  seeking  charitable  assistance. 
But  Geoffrey  was  a  good-humoured  young  man 
and  the  girl  was  very  pretty  indeed.  He  was 
prepared  to  make  allowances  for  a  little  petu- 
lance. No  temper  is  exactly  sunny  after  a 
struggle  with  a  refractory  engine. 

"I  ought  to  know  something  about  motors," 
he  said.  "I'm  driving  one." 

He  looked  round  as  he  spoke  at  his  own  large 
and  handsome  car.  The  girl's  car  in  comparison, 
was  insignificant. 

"It  doesn't  in  the  least  follow  that  you  know 
anything  about  it,"  said  the  girl.  "I  was  driving 
that  one."  She  pointed  to  the  car  in  the  middle 


A  COMPETENT  MECHANIC     207 

of  the  road.  "And  I  haven't  the  remotest  idea 
what's  wrong." 

This  time  Geoffrey  felt  that  the  girl,  though 
pretty,  deserved  a  snub.  He  was  prepared  to 
help  her,  at  some  personal  inconvenience,  but  he 
felt  that  he  had  a  right  to  expect  politeness  in 
return. 

"I  don't  think  you  ought  to  have  drawn  up 
right  in  the  middle  of  the  road,"  he  said.  "It's 
beginning  to  get  dark  and  if  anything  came 
down  the  road  at  all  fast  there'd  be  an  accident." 

"I  didn't  draw  up  in  the  middle  of  the  road," 
said  the  girl. 

Geoffrey  looked  at  her  car.  It  was  in  the 
middle,  the  very  middle  of  the  road. 

"I  didn't  draw  up  at  all,"  said  the  girl.  "The 
beastly  thing  just  stopped  there  itself.  But  I 
don't  mind  telling  you  that  if  I  could,  I'd  have 
turned  the  car  across  the  road  so  as  to  block  the 
way  altogether.  I'd  rather  there  wasn't  any 
room  to  pass.  I  wanted  anyone  who  came  along 
to  stop  and  help  me." 

Geoffrey  remained  polite,  which  was  very 
much  to  his  credit. 

"I  see  she's  a  Ford,"  he  said,  "and  Fords  are 
a  bit  hard  to  start  sometimes,  especially  in  cold 
weather.  I'll  have  a  try." 


208  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

He  went  to  the  front  of  the  car  and  seized  the 
crank  handle.  He  swung  it,  jerked,  it,  pulled  at 
it  with  his  full  strength.  There  was  a  slight 
gurgling  noise  occasionally,  but  the  engine  re- 
fused to  start.  Geoffrey  stood  erect  and  wiped 
his  forehead.  The  evening  was  chilly,  but  he 
had  no  reason  to  complain  of  being  cold.  The 
girl  sat  on  her  stone  at  the  side  of  the  road  and 
smoked  a  fresh  cigarette. 

"I  don't  think  you'll  do  much  good  that  way," 
she  said.  "I've  been  at  that  for  hours." 

Geoffrey  felt  there  was,  or  ought  to  be  a  differ- 
ence between  the  efforts  of  a  girl,  a  slight,  rather 
frail  looking  girl,  and  those  of  a  vigorous  young 
man.  He  took  off  his  overcoat  and  tried  again, 
vainly.  Then  he  opened  the  throttle  wide,  and 
advanced  the  sparking  lever  a  little. 

"If  you  do  that,"  said  the  girl,  "she'll  back-fire 
and  break  your  arm — that  is  to  say  if  she  does 
anything  at  all,  which  she  probably  won't.  She 
sprained  father's  wrist  last  week.  That's  how 
I  came  to  be  driving  her  to-day." 

Geoffrey  was  aware  of  the  unpleasant  effects 
of  a  back-fire.  But  he  took  the  risk  without 
hesitating.  Nothing  happened.  The  car,  though 
obstinate,  was  not  apparently  malicious. 


A  COMPETENT  MECHANIC     209 

"There  must  be  something  wrong,"  he  said. 
"Did  you  try  the  sparking  plugs?" 

"I  had  them  all  out,"  said  the  girl,  "and 
cleaned  them  with  a  hairpin  and  my  pocket 
handkerchief.  It  isn't  worth  your  while  to  take 
them  out  again." 

Geoffrey  fetched  a  wrench  from  his  own  car 
and  began  to  work  on  the  sparking  plugs. 

"I  see  you  don't  believe  me,"  said  the  girl. 
"But  I  really  did  clean  them.  Just  look." 

She  held  up  her  pocket  handkerchief.  It  was 
thickly  smeared  with  soot.  She  had  certainly 
cleaned  something  with  it.  Geoffrey  worked 
away  steadily  with  his  wrench. 

"And  the  worst  of  it  is,"  said  the  girl,  "that 
this  is  just  the  sort  of  evening  on  which  one 
simply  must  blow  one's  nose.  I've  had  to  blow 
mine  twice  since  I  cleaned  the  plugs  and  I  ex- 
pect its  awful." 

Geoffrey  looked  up  from  his  work.  He  had 
noticed  when  he  first  saw  her  that  her  face  was 
very  dirty.  He  knew  now  where  the  dirt  came 
from.  He  smiled.  The  girl  smiled,  too.  Her 
temper  was  beginning  to  improve.  Then  she 
sniffed.  Geoffrey  offered  her  his  pocket  hand- 
kerchief. She  took  it  without  saying  thank  you. 

The  sparking  plugs  were  cleaned  very  care- 


210  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

fully,  for  the  second  time.  Then  Geoffrey  took 
another  turn  at  the  crank  handle.  He  laboured 
in  vain.  The  engine  did  not  respond  with  so 
much  as  a  gasp. 

"The  next  thing  I  did,"  said  the  girl,  "was  to 
take  out  the  commutator  and  clean  it.  But  I 
don't  advise  you  to  do  that  unless  you  really  do 
know  something  about  engines." 

It  was  Geoffrey's  turn  to  feel  a  little  irritated. 

"I'm  a  competent  mechanic,"  he  said  shortly. 

"All  right,"  said  the  girl,  "don't  be  angry. 
I'm  a  competent  mechanic,  too.  At  least  I 
thought  I  was  before  this  happened. 

"Perhaps,"  said  Geoffrey,  "you  didn't  put  the 
commutator  back  right  after  you  took  it  out. 
I've  known  people  make  mistakes  about  that." 

His  suspicion  was  unjust.  The  commutator 
was  in  its  place  and  the  wire  terminals  correctly 
attached.  He  took  it  out  again,  cleaned  it,  oiled 
it,  and  replaced  it.  Then  he  tried  the  crank 
handle  again.  The  engine  was  entirely  unaf- 
fected. 

"The  feed  pipe  must  be  choked,"  said  Geoffrey 
decisively. 

"I  didn't  try  that,"  said  the  girl,  "but  you  can 
if  you  like.  I'll  lend  you  a  hairpin.  The  one 


A  COMPETENT  MECHANIC     211 

I  cleaned  the  plugs  with  must  be  lying  about 
somewhere." 

It  was  getting  dark,  and  a  search  for  a  lost 
hairpin  would  be  very  little  use.  Geoffrey  said 
he  would  try  blowing  through  the  feed  pipe  with 
the  pump.  The  girl,  coming  to  his  assistance, 
struck  matches  and  held  them  dangerously  near 
the  carburetter  while  he  worked.  The  clearing 
of  the  feed  pipe  made  no  difference  at  all  to  the 
engine.  It  was  quite  dark  and  freezing  hard 
when  the  job  was  finished.  Geoffrey,  exhausted 
and  breathless,  gave  up  his  final  attempt  at  the 
starting  crank. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  "I'm  awfully  sorry;  but 
I'll  have  to  chuck  it.  I've  tried  everything  I  can 
think  of.  The  only  thing  to  do  is  to  send  some- 
one out  from  the  nearest  town.  If  I  had  a  rope, 
I'd  tow  you  in,  but  I  haven't.  Is  there  a  motor 
man  in  Hamley?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  girl,  "there's  a  man  called 
Jones,  who  does  motors,  but " 

"Well,"  said  Geoffrey,  "you  get  into  my  car. 
I'll  drive  you  home,  and  then — by  the  way,  where 
do  you  live?" 

"In  Hamley.    My  father's  the  doctor  there." 

"That's  all  right.  I'll  drive  you  home  and 
send  out  Jones." 


212  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

"The  worst  of  that  is,"  said  the  girl,  "that 
Jones  always  charges  the  most  frightful  sums 
for  anything  he  does.'* 

"But  you  can't  stay  here  all  night,"  said 
Geoffrey.  "All  night!  It'll  be  all  day  to- 
morrow too.  As  far  as  I  can  see  it'll  be  always. 
You'll  never  make  that  car  go." 

"If  father  was  in  any  ordinary  temper,"  said 
the  girl,  "he  wouldn't  grouse  much  about  Jones's 
bill.  But  just  now,  on  account  of  what  hap- 
pened to  him " 

"Yes,"  said  Geoffrey.  "I  understand.  The 
sprained  wrist  makes  him  irritable." 

"It's  not  exactly  that,"  said  the  girl.  "Anyone 
might  sprain  a  wrist.  There's  no  disgrace  about 
that.  The  real  trouble  is  that  the  poor  old  dear 
put  some  stuff  on  his  wrist,  to  cure  it,  you  know. 
It  must  have  been  the  wrong  stuff,  for  it  brought 
on  erysipelas." 

"I  thought  you  said  he  was  a  doctor." 

"That's  just  it.  He  thinks  that  no  one  wiU 
believe  in  him  any  more  now  that  he's  doctored 
his  own  wrist  all  wrong.  That's  what  makes  him 
depressed.  I  told  him  not  to  mind ;  but  he  does." 

"The  best  doctors  make  mistakes  sometimes," 
said  Geoffrey. 

"Everybody  does,"  said  the  girl.    "Even  com- 


A  COMPETENT  MECHANIC     213 

patent  mechanics  aren't  always  quite  sure  about 
things,  are  they?  Now  you  see  why  I  don't  want 
to  send  out  Jones  if  I  can  possibly  help  it." 

"But  you  can't  possibly  help  it,"  said  Geof- 
frey. 

He  wondered  whether  he  could  offer  to  pay 
Jones'  bill  himself.  It  would  not,  he  supposed, 
be  very  large,  and  he  would  have  been  glad  to 
pay  it  to  save  the  girl  from  trouble.  But  he  did 
not  like  to  make  the  offer. 

"We  might,"  he  said,  "persuade  Jones  not 
to  send  in  his  bill  till  your  father's  wrist  is  better. 
Anyhow,  there's  nothing  for  it  but  to  get  him. 
We'll  just  push  your  car  to  the  side  of  the  road 
out  of  the  way  and  then  I'll  run  you  into 
Hamley." 

The  car  was  pushed  well  over  to  the  side  of 
the  road,  and  left  on  a  patch  of  grass.  Geoffrey 
shoved  hard  at  the  spokes  of  one  of  the  back 
wheels.  The  girl  pushed,  with  one  hand  on  a 
lamp  bracket.  She  steered  with  the  other,  and 
added  a  good  deal  to  Geoffrey's  labour  by  turn- 
ing the  wheel  the  wrong  way  occasionally. 

The  drive  to  Hamley  did  not  take  long;  but 
it  was  nearly  half -past  six  before  they  reached 
the  village  street.  Jones's  shop  and  motor 
garage  were  shut  up  for  the  night ;  but  a  kindly 


214  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

bystander  told  Geoffrey  where  the  man  lived. 
Unfortunately,  the  man  was  not  at  home.  His 
wife,  who  seemed  somewhat  aggrieved  at  his 
absence,  gave  it  as  her  opinion  that  he  was  likely 
to  be  found  in  the  George  Inn. 

"But  it  isn't  no  use  your  going  there  for  him," 
she  said.  "There's  a  Freemason's  dinner  to- 
night, and  Jones  wouldn't  leave  that,  not  if  you 
offered  him  a  ten-pound  note." 

Geoffrey  turned  to  the  girl. 

"Shall  we  try?"  he  asked.  "Is  it  worth  while 
going  after  him?" 

"I  can't  leave  the  car  on  the  side  of  the  road 
all  night,"  she  said.  "If  we  can't  get  Jones,  I 
must  walk  back  and  try  again." 

Geoffrey  made  a  heroic  resolve. 

"I'll  leave  you  at  home  first,"  he  said,  "and 
then  I'll  go  and  drag  Jones  out  of  that  dinner 
party  of  his.  I'm  sure  you  must  be  very  tired." 

But  the  girl  firmly  refused  to  go  home  without 
the  car.  Her  plan  was  to  go  back  with  Jones, 
if  Jones  could  be  persuaded  to  start,  and  then 
drive  home  when  the  car  was  set  right. 

"Very  well,"  said  Geoffrey,  "let's  go  and  get 
Jones.  We'll  all  go  back  together.  I  can  stop 
the  night  in  Hamley  and  go  on  to-morrow  morn- 
ing." 


A  COMPETENT  MECHANIC     215 

He  rather  expected  a  protest  from  the  girl,  a 
protest  ending  in  warm  thanks  for  his  kindness. 
He  received  instead  a  remark  which  rather  sur- 
prised him. 

"I  daresay,"  she  said,  "that  you'd  rather  like 
to  see  what  really  is  the  matter  with  the  car.  It 
will  be  so  much  knowledge  gained  for  you  after- 
wards. And  you  do  take  an  interest  in  me- 
chanics, don't  you?" 

Geoffrey,  in  the  course  of  his  operations  on  the 
car,  had  several  times  professed  a  deep  interest  in 
mechanics.  He  recollected  that,  just  at  first,  he 
had  boasted  a  good  deal  about  his  skill  and 
knowledge.  He  suspected  that  the  girl  was 
laughing  at  him.  This  irritated  him,  and  when 
he  reached  the  George  Inn  he  was  in  no  mood 
to  listen  patiently  to  Jones'  refusal  to  leave  the 
dinner. 

Jones  did  refuse,  firmly  and  decisively.  Geof- 
frey argued  with  him,  attempted  to  bribe  him, 
finally  swore  at  him.  The  girl  stood  by  and 
laughed.  Jones  turned  on  her  truculently. 

"If  young  ladies,"  he  said,  "would  stay  in  their 
homes,  which  is  the  proper  place  for  them,  and 
not  go  driving  about  in  motor  cars,  there'd  be 
less  trouble  in  the  world;  and  decent  men  who 


216  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

work  hard  all  day  would  be  left  to  eat  their  din- 
ners in  peace." 

The  girl  was  entirely  unabashed. 

"If  decent  men,"  she  said,  "would  think  more 
about  their  business  and  less  about  their  dinners, 
motors  wouldn't  break  down  six  miles  from 
home.  You  were  supposed  to  have  overhauled 
that  car  last  week,  Jones,  and  you  told  father 
yourself  that  the  engine  was  in  first  rate  order." 

"No  engine  will  go,"  said  Jones,  "if  you  don't 
know  how  to  drive  it. 

"Look  here,"  said  Geoffrey,  "hop  into  my  car. 
I'll  have  you  there  in  less  than  half  an  hour. 
We'll  bring  a  rope  with  us,  and  if  you  can't  make 
the  car  start  at  once,  we'll  tow  it  home.  It  won't 
be  a  long  job.  I'll  undertake  to  have  you  back 
here  in  an  hour.  Your  dinner  won't  be  cold  by 
that  time." 

He  took  Jones  by  the  arm  and  pulled  him 
towards  the  door  of  the  inn.  Jones,  protesting 
and  muttering,  gave  way  at  last.  He  fetched 
his  hat  and  coat,  and  took  a  seat  in  Geoffrey's 
car. 

Geoffrey  made  good  his  promise.  Once  clear 
of  the  town,  with  an  empty  road  before  him,  he 
drove  fast  and  reached  the  scene  of  the  break- 
down in  less  than  twenty  minutes. 


A  COMPETENT  MECHANIC     217 

Jones  was  evidently  sulky.  Without  speaking 
a  word  to  either  Geoffrey  or  the  girl  he  went 
straight  to  the  car  at  the  side  of  the  road.  He 
gave  the  starting  handle  a  single  turn.  Then  he 
stopped  and  went  to  the  back  of  the  car.  He 
took  out  a  tin  of  petrol  and  emptied  it  into  the 
tank.  Then  he  gave  another  jerk  to  the  starting 
handle.  The  engine  responded  at  once  with  a 
cheerful  rattle.  The  girl,  to  Geoffrey's  amaze- 
ment, laughed  loud.  He  felt  abashed  and  hu- 
miliated, very  little  inclined  to  mirth. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,"  he  babbled  his  apologies. 
"I'm  really  awfully  sorry.  It  was  extremely 

stupid  of  me,  but  I  never  thought .  Of 

course  I  ought  to  have  looked  at  the  petrol  tank 
first  thing." 

"It  was  a  bit  stupid  of  you,  I  must  say,"  said 
the  girl,  "considering  what  you  said  about  under- 
standing motors." 

Geoffrey  felt  inclined  to  remind  her  that  she, 
too,  had  boasted  some  knowledge  of  cars  and  that 
she  had  been  at  fault  even  more  than  he  had,  and 
that  in  fact  she  ought  to  have  guessed  that  her 
petrol  had  gone.  He  was  saved  from  making 
his  retort  by  Jones.  Ignoring  the  girl  com- 
pletely, as  if  she  were  beneath  contempt,  Jones 
spoke  to  Geoffrey. 


218  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

"I  dunno,"  he  said,  "how  you  expected  the 
engine  to  work  without  petrol." 

His  tone  was  full  of  scorn,  and  Geoffrey  felt 
like  a  withered  flower.  The  girl  was  in  no  way 
abashed. 

"It's  just  like  asking  a  man  to  work  without 
his  dinner,"  she  said,  "but  they  sometimes  do, 
you  know." 

Then  she  turned  to  Geoffrey. 

"If  you  promise  faithfully,"  she  said,  "not  to 
tell  father  what  happened,  you  can  come  and 
have  dinner  with  us  to-night." 

It  was  the  only  sign  of  gratitude  that  the  girl 
had  shown,  and  Geoffrey's  first  inclination  was 
to  refuse  the  invitation  definitely.  But  he 
caught  sight  of  her  face  before  she  spoke.  She 
was  standing  in  the  full  glare  of  one  of  the 
lamps.  Her  eyes  were  twinkling  and  very 
bright.  On  her  lips  was  a  smile,  impudent, 
provocative,  extremely  attractive. 

Geoffrey  Dane  dined  that  night  with  the  doc- 
tor and  his  daughter.  He  described  the  break- 
down of  the  motor  in  the  vaguest  terms. 


XIII 

MY  NIECE  KITTY 

I  CONSIDER  it  fortunate  that  Kitty  is  my 
niece.  She  might  have  been  my  daughter 
and  then  I  should  have  had  a  great  deal  of 
responsibility  and  lived  a  troublous  life.  On  the 
other  hand  if  Kitty  had  not  been  related  to  me 
in  some  way  I  should  have  missed  a  pleasant 
intimacy.  I  should  probably  very  seldom  see  her 
if  she  were  the  daughter  of  a  casual  acquaint- 
ance, and  when  I  did  see  her  she  would  be  shy, 
perhaps,  or  pert.  I  should  almost  certainly  be 
awkward.  I  am,  I  regret  to  say,  fifty  years  of 
age.  Kitty  is  just  sixteen.  Some  kind  of  re- 
lationship is  necessary  if  there  is  to  be  real  friend- 
ship between  an  elderly  man  and  a  young  girl. 
Uncles,  if  they  did  not  exist  in  nature,  would 
have  to  be  invented  for  the  sake  of  people  like 
Kitty  and  myself. 

I  see  Kitty  twice  a  year  regularly.  She  and 
her  mother  come  to  town  at  Christmas  time  for 
shopping.  They  stay  at  my  house.  In  summer 
I  spend  my  three  weeks  holiday  with  my  sister 

219 


220  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

who  lives  all  the  year  round  in  a  seaside  place 
which  most  people  regard  as  a  summer  resort. 
She  does  this  on  account  of  the  delicate  health 
of  her  husband,  who  suffers  from  an  obscure 
nervous  disease.  If  I  were  Kitty's  father  I 
should  probably  have  a  nervous  disorder,  too. 

In  December  I  am  master  of  the  situation. 
I  treat  Kitty  exactly  as  an  uncle  ought  to  treat 
a  niece.  I  take  her  to  theatres  and  picture 
houses.  I  feed  her  at  irregular  hours  on  sweet, 
unwholesome  food.  I  buy  her  presents  and 
allow  her  to  choose  them.  Kitty,  as  my  guest, 
behaves  as  well  as  any  niece  could.  She  is  re- 
spectful, obedient,  and  always  delighted  with 
the  entertainments  I  provide  for  her.  In  sum- 
mer— Kitty  being  then  the  hostess  and  I  the 
guest — things  are  different.  She  considers  it  her 
duty  to  amuse  me.  Her  respect  for  me  vanishes. 
I  am  the  one  who  is  obedient;  but  I  am  not 
always  delighted  at  the  entertainments  she  pro- 
vides. She  means  well,  but  she  is  liable  to  forget 
that  a  stiff -limbed  bachelor  of  fifty  prefers  quiet 
to  strenuous  sports. 

One  morning  during  the  second  week  of  my 
last  holiday  Kitty  came  down  late  for  breakfast. 
She  is  often  late  for  breakfast  and  she  never 
apologises.  I  daresay  she  is  right.  Most  of  us 


MY  NIECE  KITTY  221 

are  late  for  breakfast,  when  we  are  late,  because 
we  are  lazy  and  stay  too  long  in  bed.  It  is  impos- 
sible to  think  of  Kitty  being  lazy.  She  always 
gets  up  early  and  is  only  late  for  breakfast  be- 
cause she  has  had  time  to  find  some  enthralling 
occupation  before  breakfast  is  ready.  Breakfast 
and  the  rest  of  the  party  ought  to  apologise  to 
her  for  not  being  ready  sooner.  It  is  really  we 
who  keep  her  waiting.  She  was  dressed  that 
morning  in  a  blue  cotton  frock,  at  least  two 
inches  longer  than  the  frocks  she  used  to  wear 
last  year.  If  her  face  had  not  been  as  freckled 
as  a  turkey's  egg  and  the  skin  had  not  been  peel- 
ing off  her  nose  with  sunburn  she  would  have 
looked  very  pretty.  Next  year,  I  suppose,  her 
frocks  will  be  down  to  her  ankles  and  she  will 
be  taking  care  of  her  complexion.  Then,  no 
doubt,  she  will  look  very  pretty.  But  she  will 
not  look  any  more  demure  than  she  did  that 
morning. 

"It  is  always  right,"  she  said,  "to  do  good 
when  we  can,  and  to  show  kindness  to  those 
whose  lot  in  life  is  less  happy  than  our  own." 

When  Kitty  looks  particularly  demure  and 
utters  sentiments  of  that  kind,  as  if  she  were 
translating  one  of  Dr.  Watts'  hymns  into  prose, 
I  know  that  there  is  trouble  coming.  I  did  not 


222  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

have  to  wait  long  to  find  out  what  was  in  store. 

"Claire  Lane's  aunt,"  she  said,  "does  a  great 
deal  of  work  for  the  children  of  the  very  poor. 
That  is  a  noble  thing  to  do." 

It  is.  I  have  heard  of  Miss  Lane's  work. 
Indeed  I  give  a  subscription  every  year  towards 
carrying  it  on. 

"Claire,"  Kitty  went  on,  "is  my  greatest 
friend  at  school,  and  she  sometimes  helps  her 
aunt.  Claire  is  rather  noble  too,  though  not 
so  noble  as  Miss  Lane." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear,"  I  said,  "that  you  have 
such  a  nice  girl  for  a  friend.  I  suppose  it  was 
from  her  you  learnt  that  it  was  right  to  show 
kindness  to  those  whose  lot  is  less  happy  than 
our  own." 

Kitty  referred  to  a  letter  which  she  had 
brought  with  her  into  the  room,  and  then  said: 

"To-day  Claire  and  her  aunt  are  bringing 
fifty  children  down  here  to  spend  the  day  play- 
ing on  the  beach  and  paddling  in  the  sea.  That 
will  cost  a  lot  and  I  expect  you  to  subscribe, 
Uncle  John." 

I  at  once  handed  Kitty  all  the  money  I  had  in 
my  pocket.  She  took  it  without  a  word  of 
thanks.  It  was  quite  a  respectable  sum,  perhaps 
deserving  a  little  gratitude,  but  I  did  not  grudge 


MY  NIECE  KITTY  223 

it.  I  felt  I  was  getting  off  cheap  if  I  only  had  to 
give  money.  My  sister,  Kitty's  mother,  under- 
stood the  situation  better. 

"I  suppose  I  must  send  down  bread  and  jam," 
she  said.  "Did  you  say  fifty  children,  Kitty?" 

"Fifty  or  sixty,"  said  Kitty. 

"Three  pots  of  jam  and  ten  loaves  ought  to 
be  enough,"  said  my  sister. 

"And  cake,"  said  Kitty.  "They  must  have 
cake.  Uncle  John,"  she  turned  to  me,  "would 
you  rather  cut  up  bread  and  jam  or  walk  over 
to  the  village  and  bring  back  twenty-five  pounds 
of  cake?" 

I  was  not  going  to  get  off  so  easily  as  I  hoped. 
The  day  was  hot,  far  too  hot  for  walking,  and 
the  village  is  two  miles  off ;  but  I  made  my  choice 
without  hesitation.  I  greatly  prefer  heat  to 
stickiness  and  I  know  no  stickier  job  than  mak- 
ing bread  and  jam  sandwiches. 

"If  you  start  at  once,"  said  Kitty,  "you'll  be 
back  in  time  to  help  me  with  the  bread  and  jam." 

I  regret  to  say  I  was  back  in  time  to  spread 
the  jam  out  of  the  last  pot. 

Miss  Lane's  party  arrived  by  train  at  12 
o'clock.  By  that  time  I  had  discovered  that  I 
had  not  bought  freedom  with  my  subscription, 
nor  earned  the  title  of  noble  by  walking  to  the 


224  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

,village.  I  was  expected  to  spend  the  rest  of  the 
day  helping  to  amuse  Miss  Lane's  picnic  party. 
Kitty  and  I  met  them  when  they  arrived. 

Miss  Lane,  the  aunt,  is  a  very  plump  lady 
with  nice  white  hair.  Her  face,  when  she  got 
out  of  the  train,  was  glistening  with  perspiration. 
Claire,  the  niece,  is  a  pretty  little  girl.  She  wore 
a  pink  frock,  but  it  was  no  pinker  than  her  face. 
Her  efforts  to  show  kindness  to  the  children  in 
the  train  had  been  too  much  for  her.  She  was 
tired,  bewildered,  and  helpless.  There  were 
fifty-six  children,  all  girls,  and  they  ranged  in 
ages  from  about  13  years  down  to  toddling 
infants.  Miss  Lane,  the  aunt,  asked  me  to  count 
them  for  her.  I  suppose  she  wanted  to  make 
sure  that  she  had  not  lost  any  on  the  way  down 
and  that  she  would  have  as  many  to  take  home  as 
she  had  when  she  started.  Left  to  my  own  re- 
sources I  could  not  possibly  have  counted  fifty 
delirious  children,  not  one  of  whom  stood  still  for 
a  single  instant.  Kitty  came  to  my  rescue.  She 
coursed  up  and  down  among  the  children,  shout- 
ing, pushing,  occasionally  slapping  in  a  friendly 
way,  and,  at  last,  corralled  the  whole  party  in  a 
corner  between  two  sheds.  I  have  seen  a  well- 
trained  sheep  dog  perform  a  similar  feat  in  much 
the  same  way.  I  counted  the  flock,  with 


MY  NIECE  KITTY  225 

some  difficulty  even  then,  and  noted  the  num- 
ber carefully  in  my  pocket  book.  Then  there 
was  a  wild  rush  for  the  beach.  Miss  Lane 
headed  it  at  first,  carrying  one  of  the  smallest 
children  in  her  arms  and  dragging  another  by 
the  hand.  She  was  soon  overtaken  and  passed 
by  Kitty  and  six  lean,  long-legged  girls,  who 
charged  whooping,  straight  for  the  sea.  Claire 
and  I  followed  slowly  at  the  tail  of  the  proces- 
sion. I  was  sorry  for  her  because  one  of  her 
shoes  was  beginning  to  hurt  her.  She  confided 
this  to  me  and  later  on  in  the  day  I  could  see  that 
the  pain  was  acute.  We  reached  the.  beach  in 
time  to  see  Kitty  dragging  off  her  shoes  and 
stockings.  Eight  or  ten  of  the  girls  had  walked 
straight  into  the  sea  and  were  splashing  about 
up  to  their  knees  in  water.  Kitty  went  after 
them  and  dragged  them  back.  She  said  that  if 
they  wanted  to  bathe  they  ought  to  take  their 
clothes  off.  Kitty  is  a  good  swimmer,  and  I 
think  she  wanted  those  children  to  bathe  so  as 
to  have  a  chance  of  saving  their  lives  when  they 
began  to  drown.  Fortunately,  Miss  Lane  dis- 
covered what  was  going  on  and  put  a  stop  to  the 
bathing.  She  was  breathless  but  firm.  I  do  not 
know  whether  she  shrank  from  drowning  the 
children  or  held  conventional  ideas  about  the 


226  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

necessity  of  bathing  dresses  for  girls.  Whatever 
her  reasons  were  she  absolutely  forbade  bathing. 
The  day  was  extraordinarily  hot  and  our  work 
was  most  strenuous.  We  paddled,  and  I  had  to 
wade  in  several  times,  far  above  the  part  of  my 
legs  to  which  it  was  possible  to  roll  up  my  trous- 
ers. We  built  elaborate  sand  castles,  and  enor- 
mous mounds,  which  Kitty  called  redoubts.  I 
was  made  to  plan  a  series  of  trenches  similar  to 
those  used  by  the  armies  in  France,  and  we  had 
a  most  exciting  battle,  during  which  Kitty  com- 
pelled me  to  become  a  casualty  so  that  six  girls 
might  have  the  pleasure  of  dragging  me  back  to 
a  place  of  safety.  We  very  nearly  had  a  real 
casualty  afterwards  when  the  roof  of  a  dug-out 
fell  in  and  buried  two  infants.  Kitty  and  I 
rescued  them,  digging  f  renziedly  with  our  hands. 
Miss  Lane  scooped  the  sand  out  of  their  mouths 
afterwards  with  her  forefinger,  and  dried  their 
eyes  when  they  had  recovered  sufficiently  to  cry. 
We  fed  the  whole  party  on  buns  and  lemonade 
and  became  sticky  from  head  to  foot.  We  ran 
races  and  had  tugs-of-war  with  a  rope  made  of 
stockings  tied  together.  It  was  not  a  good  rope 
because  it  always  broke  at  the  most  exciting 
moments,  but  that  only  added  to  our  pleasure; 
for  both  teams  fell  flat  on  their  backs  when  the 


MY  NIECE  KITTY  227 

rope  gave  way,  and  Miss  Lane  looked  particu- 
larly funny  rolling  on  the  sand. 

At  six  o'clock  the  gardener  and  the  cook,  sent 
by  Kitty's  mother,  came  down  from  the  house 
carrying  a  large  can  of  milk  and  a  clothes  basket 
full  of  bread  and  jam  and  cake.  We  were  all 
glad  to  see  them.  Even  the  most  active  children 
were  becoming  exhausted  and  were  willing  to  sit 
down  and  be  fed.  I  was  very  nearly  done  up. 
Poor  Claire  was  seated  on  a  stone,  nursing  her 
blistered  foot.  Only  Miss  Lane  and  Kitty  had 
any  energy  left,  and  Miss  Lane  was  in  an 
appalling  state  of  heat.  Kitty  remained  cool, 
owing  perhaps  to  the  fact  that  she  was  soaked 
through  from  the  waist  down,  having  carried 
twenty  or  thirty  dripping  infants  out  of  the  sea 
in  the  course  of  the  day. 

My  sister's  gardener,  who  carried  the  milk,  is  a 
venerable  man  with  a  long  white  beard.  He  is 
greatly  stooped  from  constant  digging  and  he 
suffers  from  rheumatism  in  his  knees.  It  was 
his  appearance,  no  doubt,  which  suggested  to 
Kitty  the  absolutely  fiendish  idea  of  an  obstacle 
race  for  veterans.  The  veterans,  of  course,  were 
Miss  Lane,  the  gardener,  the  cook,  who  was  a 
very  fat  woman,  and  myself.  Miss  Lane  agreed 
to  the  proposal  at  once  with  apparent  pleasure, 


228  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

and  the  whole  fifty-six  children  shouted  with  joy. 
The  gardener,  who  has  known  Kitty  since  she 
was  born,  recognised  the  uselessness  of  protest 
and  took  his  place  beside  Miss  Lane.  The  cook 
said  she  never  ran  races  and  could  not  jump. 
Anyone  who  had  looked  at  her  would  have 
known  she  was  speaking  the  truth.  But  Kitty 
would  take  no  refusal.  She  took  that  cook  by 
the  arm  and  dragged  her  to  the  starting  line. 

The  course,  which  was  arranged  by  Kitty,  was 
a  stiff  one.  It  took  us  all  over  the  redoubts, 
castles,  and  trenches  we  had  built  during  the 
day  and  across  a  tract  of  particularly  soft  sand, 
difficult  to  walk  over  and  most  exhausting  to 
anyone  who  tried  to  run.  It  finished  up  with 
what  Kitty  called  a  water  jump,  though  no  one 
could  possibly  have  jumped  it.  It  was  a  wide, 
shallow  pool,  formed  in  the  sand  by  the  flowing 
tide  and  the  only  way  of  getting  past  it  was  to 
wade  through. 

I  felt  fairly  confident  I  should  win  that  race. 
The  gardener  is  ten  years  older  than  I  am  and 
very  stiff  in  the  joints.  The  cook  plainly  did 
not  mean  to  try.  Miss  Lane  is  far  past  the  age 
at  which  women  cease  to  be  active,  and  was  badly 
handicapped  by  having  to  run  in  a  long  skirt.  I 
started  at  top  speed  and  cleared  the  first  redoubt 


MY  NIECE  KITTY  229 

without  difficulty,  well  ahead  of  anyone  else.  I 
kept  my  lead  while  I  floundered  through  three 
trenches,  and  increased  it  among  the  castles 
which  lay  beyond.  When  I  reached  the  soft  sand 
I  ventured  to  look  back.  I  was  gratified  to  see 
that  the  cook  had  given  up.  The  gardener  was 
in  difficulties  at  the  second  trench,  and  Miss 
Lane  had  fallen.  When  I  saw  her  she  was 
sprawling  over  a  sand  castle,  surrounded  by 
cheering  children.  It  did  not  seem  likely  thaf 
she  would  have  strength  enough  to  get  up  again 
or  breath  to  run  any  more  if  she  did  get  on  her 
feet.  I  felt  that  I  was  justified  in  walking 
quietly  over  the  soft  sand.  Beyond  it  lay  a  tract 
of  smooth,  hard  sand,  near  the  sea,  and  then  the 
water  jump.  My  supporters,  a  number  of  chil- 
dren who  had  easily  kept  pace  with  me  and  were 
encouraging  me  with  shouts,  seemed  disap- 
pointed when  I  dropped  to  a  walk.  To  please 
them  I  broke  into  a  gentle  trot  when  I  reached 
the  hard  sand.  I  still  felt  perfectly  sure  that  the 
race  was  mine. 

I  was  startled  out  of  my  confidence  by  the 
sound  of  terrific  yells,  just  as  I  stepped  cau- 
tiously into  the  water  jump.  I  looked  round 
and  saw  Miss  Lane.  Her  hair  was  flying  behind 
her  in  a  wild  tangle.  Her  petticoats  were  gath- 


230  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

ered  well  above  her  knees.  She  was  crossing 
the  hard  sand  at  a  tremendous  pace.  I  saw  that 
my  only  chance  was  to  collect  my  remaining 
energies  for  a  spurt.  Before  I  had  made  the 
attempt  Miss  Lane  was  past  me.  She  jumped 
a  clear  eight  feet  into  the  shallow  water  in  which 
I  stood  and  came  down  with  a  splash  which 
nearly  blinded  me  with  spray.  I  rubbed  the 
salt  water  out  of  my  eyes  and  started  forward. 
It  was  too  late.  Miss  Lane  was  ten  or  twelve 
yards  ahead  of  me.  She  was  splashing  through 
the  water  quicker  than  I  should  have  believed 
possible.  She  stumbled,  and  once  I  thought  she 
was  down,  but  she  did  not  actually  fall  until  she 
flung  herself,  breathless,  at  Kitty's  feet,  at  the 
winning  post. 

The  children  shrieked  with  joy,  and  Kitty  said 
she  was  very  glad  I  had  been  beaten. 

I  did  not  .understand  at  the  time  why  she  was 
glad,  but  I  found  out  afterwards.  I  was  stiff 
and  tired  that  evening  but  rather  proud  of  my- 
self. I  had  done  something  to  be  proud  of.  I 
had  spent  a  whole  day  in  showing  kindness — I 
suppose  it  really  was  kindness — to  those  whose 
lot  on  other  days  is  worse  than  my  own;  and  that, 
as  Kitty  says,  is  a  noble  thing  to  do.  I  was  not, 
however,  left  in  peace  to  enjoy  my  pleasant 


MY  NIECE  KITTY  231 

mood  of  self -congratulation.  I  had  just  lit  my 
cigar  and  settled  comfortably  in  the  verandah 
when  Kitty  came  to  me. 

"I  suppose  you  know,"  she  said,  "that  there 
was  a  prize  for  that  veterans'  race  this  after- 
noon." 

"No,"  I  said,  "I  didn't  know,  but  I'm  glad  to 
hear  it.  I  hope  Miss  Lane  will  enjoy  the  prize. 
She  certainly  deserves  it." 

"The  prize,"  said  Kitty,  "is " 

To  my  surprise  she  mentioned  a  sum  of 
money,  quite  a  large  sum. 

"—To  be  paid,"  said  Kitty,  "by  the  losers, 
and  to  go  to  the  funds  of  Miss  Lane's  Society 
for  giving  pleasure  to  poor  children.  The  gar- 
dener and  cook  can't  pay,  of  course,  being  poor 
themselves.  So  you'll  have  to  pay  it  all." 

"I  haven't  the  money  in  my  pocket,"  I  said. 
"Will  it  do  if  I  send  it  to-morrow?" 

Kitty  graciously  agreed  to  wait  till  the  next 
day.  I  hardly  expected  that  she  would. 

"By  the  way,  Kitty,"  I  said,  "if  I'd  won,  and 
I  very  nearly  did,  would  Miss  Lane  have  paid 
me?" 

"Of  course  not.  Why  should  she?  You 
haven't  got  a  society  for  showing  kindness  to  the 
poor.  There'd  be  no  sense  in  giving  you  money." 


282  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

The  gardener  to  whom  I  was  talking  next 
morning,  gave  it  to  me  as  his  opinion  that  "Miss 
Kitty  is  a  wonderful  young  lady."  I  agreed  with 
him  and  am  glad  that  she  is  my  niece,  not  my 
daughter. 


XIV 

A  ROYAL  MARRIAGE 

MICHAEL  KANE  carried  His  Maj- 
esty's mails  from  Clonmethan  to  the 
Island  of  Inishrua.  He  made  the 
voyage  twice  a  week  in  a  big  red  boat  fitted  with 
a  motor  engine.  He  had  as  his  partner  a  young 
man  called  Peter  Gahan.  Michael  Kane  was  a 
fisherman,  and  had  a  knowledge  of  the  ways  of 
the  strange  tides  which  race  and  whirl  in  the  chan- 
nel between  Inishrua  and  the  mainland.  Peter 
Gahan  looked  like  an  engineer.  He  knew  some- 
thing about  the  tides,  but  what  he  really  under- 
stood was  the  motor  engine.  He  was  a  grave 
and  silent  young  man  who  read  small  books 
about  Socialism.  Michael  Kane  was  grey- 
haired,  much  battered  by  the  weather  and  rich 
in  experience  of  life.  He  was  garrulous  and 
took  a  humorous  view  of  most  things,  even  of 
Peter  Gahan's  Socialism. 

There  are,  perhaps,  two  hundred  people  living 
on  Inishrua,  but  they  do  not  receive  many  letters. 
Nor  do  they  write  many.  Most  of  them  neither 


234  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

write  nor  receive  any  letters  at  all.  A  post  twice 
a  week  is  quite  sufficient  for  their  needs,  and 
Michael  Kane  is  not  very  well  paid  for  carrying 
the  lean  letter  bag.  But  he  makes  a  little  money 
by  taking  parcels  across  to  the  island.  The 
people  of  Inishrua  grow,  catch  or  shoot  most  of 
the  things  they  want;  but  they  cannot  produce 
their  own  tea,  tobacco,  sugar  or  flour.  Michael 
Kane  takes  orders  for  these  and  other  things 
from  Mary  Nally,  who  keeps  a  shop  on  Inishrua. 
He  buys  them  in  Clonmethan  and  conveys  them 
to  tjie  island.  In  this  way  he  earns  something. 
He  also  carries  passengers  and  makes  a  little  out 
of  them. 

Last  summer,  because  it  was  stormy  and  wet, 
was  a  very  lean  season  for  Michael  Kane.  Week 
after  week  he  made  his  journeys  to  Inishrua 
without  a  single  passenger.  Towards  the  middle 
of  August  he  began  to  give  up  hope  altogether. 

He  and  Peter  sat  together  one  morning  on 
the  end  of  the  pier.  The  red  post  boat  hung  at 
her  moorings  outside  the  little  harbour.  The 
day  was  windless  and  the  sea  smooth  save  for  the 
ocean  swell  which  made  shorewards  in  a  long 
procession  of  round-topped  waves.  It  was  a  day 
which  might  have  tempted  even  a  timid  tourist 


A  ROYAL  MARRIAGE  235 

to  visit  the  island.  But  there  was  no  sign  of 
anyone  approaching  the  pier. 

"I'm  thinking,"  said  Michael  Kane,  "that  we 
may  as  well  be  starting.  There'll  be  no  one 
coming  with  us  the  day." 

But  he  was  mistaken.  A  passenger,  an  eager- 
looking  young  woman,  was  hurrying  towards  the 
pier  while  they  were  making  up  their  minds  to 
start. 

Miss  Ivy  Clarence  had  prepared  herself  for 
a  voyage  which  seemed  to  her  something  of  an 
adventure.  She  wore  a  tight-fitting  knitted  cap, 
a  long,  belted,  waterproof  coat,  meant  originally 
to  be  worn  by  a  soldier  in  the  trenches  in  France. 
She  had  a  thick  muffler  round  her  neck.  She 
carried  a  rug,  a  packet  of  sandwiches,  a  small 
handbag  and  an  umbrella,  of  all  possible  ac- 
coutrements the  least  likely  to  be  useful  in  an 
open  boat.  But  though  she  carried  an  umbrella, 
Miss  Clarence  did  not  look  like  a  fool.  She 
might  know  nothing  about  boats  and  the  way  to 
travel  in  them,  but  she  had  a  bright,  intelligent 
face  and  a  self-confident  decision  of  manner. 
She  was  by  profession  a  journalist,  and  had  con- 
ceived the  idea  of  visiting  Ireland  and  writing 
articles  about  that  unfortunate  country.  Being 
an  intelligent  journalist  she  knew  that  articles 


236  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

about  the  state  of  Ireland  are  overdone  and  very 
tiresome.  Nobody,  especially  during  the  holiday 
season,  wants  to  be  bored  with  Irish  politics. 
But  for  bright,  cheery  descriptions  of  Irish  life 
and  customs,  as  for  similar  descriptions  of  the 
ways  of  other  strange  peoples,  there  is  always  a 
market.  Miss  Clarence  determined  to  exploit  it. 
She  planned  to  visit  five  or  six  of  the  larger 
islands  off  the  Irish  coast.  There,  if  anywhere, 
quaint  customs,  picturesque  superstitions  and 
primitive  ways  of  living  might  still  be  found. 

Michael  greeted  her  as  if  she  had  been  an 
honoured  guest.  He  was  determined  to  make 
the  trip  as  pleasant  as  he  could  for  anyone  who 
was  wise  enough  to  leave  the  tennis-courts  and 
the  golf-links. 

"It's  a  grand  day  for  seeing  Inishrua,"  he 
said.  "Not  a  better  day  there's  been  the  whole 
summer  up  to  now.  And  why  wouldn't  it  be 
fine?  It  would  be  a  queer  day  that  wouldn't 
when  a  young  lady  like  yourself  is  wanting  to 
go  on  the  sea." 

This  was  the  kind  of  speech,  flattering,  ex- 
aggerated, slightly  surprising,  which  Michael 
Kane  was  accustomed  to  make  to  his  passengers. 
Miss  Clarence  did  not  know  that  something  of 
the  same  sort  was  said  to  every  lady,  young  or 


A  ROYAL  MARRIAGE          287 

old,  who  ventured  into  Michael's  boat.  She  was 
greatly  pleased  and  made  a  mental  note  of  the 
words. 

Michael  Kane  and  Peter  Gahan  went  over 
to  a  dirty  and  dilapidated  boat  which  lay  on  the 
slip.  They  seized  her  by  the  gunwale,  raised  her 
and  laid  her  keel  on  a  roller.  They  dragged  her 
across  the  slip  and  launched  her,  bow  first,  with 
a  loud  splash. 

"Step  easy  now,  miss,"  said  Michael,  "and 
lean  on  my  shoulder.  Give  the  young  lady  your 
hand,  Peter.  Can't  you  see  the  stones  is  slippy?" 

Peter  was  quite  convinced  that  all  members 
of  the  bourgeois  class  ought  to  be  allowed,  for 
the  good  of  society,  to  break  their  legs  on  slip- 
pery rocks.  But  he  was  naturally  a  courteous 
man.  He  offered  Miss  Clarence  an  oily  hand 
and  she  got  safely  into  the  boat. 

The  engine  throbbed  and  the  screw  under  the 
rudder  revolved  slowly.  The  boat  slid  forward, 
gathering  speed,  and  headed  out  to  sea  for 
Inishrua. 

Michael  Kane  began  to  talk.  Like  a  pianist 
who  strikes  the  notes  of  his  instrument  tenta- 
tively, feeling  about  for  the  right  key,  he  touched 
on  one  subject  after  another,  confident  that  in 
the  end  he  would  light  on  something  really  inter- 


238  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

esting  to  his  passenger.  Michael  Kane  was 
happy  in  this,  that  he  could  talk  equally  well 
on  all  subjects.  He  began  with  the  coast  scenery, 
politics  and  religion,  treating  these  thorny 
topics  with  such  detachment  that  no  one  could 
have  guessed  what  party  or  what  church  he  be- 
longed to.  Miss  Clarence  was  no  more  than 
moderately  interested.  He  passed  on  to  the 
Islanders  of  Iriishrua,  and  discovered  that  he 
had  at  last  reached  the  topic  he  was  seeking. 
Miss  Clarence  listened  eagerly  to  all  he  said. 
She  even  asked  questions,  after  the  manner  of 
intelligent  journalists. 

"If  it's  the  island  people  you  want  to  see, 
miss,"  he  said,  "it's  well  you  came  this  year. 
There'll  be  none  of  them  left  soon.  They're 
dying  out,  so  they  are." 

Miss  Clarence  thought  of  a  hardy  race  of  men 
wringing  bare  subsistence  from  a  niggardly  soil, 
battered  by  storms,  succumbing  slowly  to  the  im- 
possible conditions  of  their  island.  She  began 
to  see  her  way  to  an  article  of  a  pathetic  kind. 

"It's  sleep  that's  killing  them  off,"  said 
Michael  Kane. 

Miss  Clarence  was  startled.  She  had  heard  of 
sleeping  sickness,  but  had  always  supposed  it  to 


A  ROYAL  MARRIAGE          239 

be  a  tropical  disease.  It  surprised  her  to  hear 
that  it  was  ravaging  an  island  like  Inishrua. 

"Men  or  women,  it's  the  same,"  said  Michael. 
"They'll  sleep  all  night  and  they'll  sleep  the 
most  of  the  day.  Not  a  tap  of  work  will  be  done 
on  the  island,  summer  or  winter." 

"But,"  said  Miss  Clarence,  "how  do  they  live?" 

"They'll  not  live  long,"  said  Michael.  "Amn't 
I  telling  you  that  they're  dying  out?  It's  the 
sleep  that's  killing  them." 

Miss  Clarence  drew  a  large  notebook  and  a 
pencil  from  her  bag.  Michael  was  greatly 
pleased.  He  went  on  to  tell  her  that  the  Inish- 
rua islanders  had  become  enormously  rich  dur- 
ing the  war.  Wrecked  ships  had  drifted  on  to 
their  coasts  in  dozens.  They  had  gathered  in 
immense  stores  of  oil,  petrol,  cotton,  valuable 
wood  and  miscellaneous  merchandise  of  every 
kind.  There  was  no  need  for  them  to  work  any 
more.  Digging,  ploughing,  fishing,  toil  of  every 
kind  was  unnecessary.  All  they  had  to  do  was 
eat  and  sleep,  waking  up  now  and  then  for  an 
hour  or  two  to  sell  their  spoils  to  eager  buyers 
who  came  to  them  from  England. 

Michael  could  have  gone  on  talking  about  the 
immense  riches  of  the  islanders.  He  would  have 
liked  to  enlarge  upon  the  evil  consequences  of 


240  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

having  no  work  to  do,  the  inevitable  extinction 
which  waits  for  those  who  merely  sleep.  But  he 
was  conscious  that  Peter  Gahan  was  becoming 
uneasy.  As  a  good  socialist,  Peter  knew  that 
work  is  an  unnecessary  evil,  and  that  men  will 
never  he  healthy  or  happy  until  they  escape  from 
the  tyranny  of  toil.  He  was  not  likely  to  listen 
patiently  to  Michael's  doctrine  that  a  race  of 
sleepers  is  doomed  to  extinction.  At  any  mo- 
ment he  might  burst  into  the  conversation  argu- 
mentatively.  And  Michael  Kane  did  not  want 
that.  He  liked  to  do  all  the  talking  himself. 
He  switched  off  the  decay  of  the  islanders  and 
started  a  new  subject  which  he  hoped  would  be 
equally  interesting  to  Miss  Clarence. 

"It's  a  lucky  day  you  have  for  visiting  the 
island,"  he  said.  "But  sure  you  know  that  your- 
self, and  there's  no  need  for  me  to  be  telling 
you." 

Beyond  the  fact  that  the  day  was  moderately 
fine,  Miss  Clarence  did  not  know  that  there  was 
anything  specially  lucky  about  it.  She  looked 
enquiringly  at  Michael  Kane. 

"It's  the  day  of  the  King's  wedding,"  said 
Michael. 

To  Miss  Clarence  "the  King"  suggested  his 
Majesty  George  V.  But  he  married  some  time 


A  ROYAL  MARRIAGE  241 

ago,  and  she  did  not  see  why  the  islanders  should 
celebrate  an  event  of  which  most  people  have 
forgotten  the  date.  She  cast  round  in  her  mind 
for  another  monarch  likely  to  be  married ;  but  she 
could  not  think  of  any.  There  are  not,  indeed, 
very  many  kings  left  in  the  world  now.  Peter 
Gahan  gave  a  vicious  dab  at  his  engine  with  his 
oil-can,  and  then  emerged  feet  first  from  the 
shelter  of  the  fore  deck.  This  talk  about  kings 
irritated  him. 

"It's  the  publican  down  by  the  harbour 
Michael  Kane's  speaking  about,"  he  said. 
"King,  indeed!  What  is  he,  only  an  old  man 
who's  a  deal  too  fat!" 

"He  may  be  fat,"  said  Michael;  "but  if  he  is, 
he's  not  the  first  fat  man  to  get  married.  And 
he's  a  king  right  enough.  There's  always  been 
a  king  on  Inishrua,  the  same  as  in  England." 

Miss  Clarence  was  aware — she  had  read  the 
thing  somewhere — that  the  remoter  and  less 
civilised  islands  off  the  Irish  Coast  are  ruled  by 
chieftains  to  whom  their  people  give  the  title 
of  King. 

"The  woman  he's  marrying,"  said  Michael, 
"is  one  by  the  name  of  Mary  Nally,  the  same 
that  keeps  the  post-office  and  sells  tobacco  and 
tea  and  suchlike." 


242  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

"If  he's  marrying  her  to-day,"  said  Peter 
Gahan,  "it's  the  first  I  heard  of  it." 

"That  may  be,"  said  Michael,  "but  if  you  was 
to  read  less  you'd  maybe  hear  more.  You'd 
hardly  believe,"  he  turned  to  Miss  Clarence  with 
a  smile — "you'd  hardly  believe  the  time  that 
young  fellow  wastes  reading  books  and  the  like. 
There  isn't  a  day  passes  without  he'd  be  reading 
something,  good  or  bad." 

Peter  Gahan,  thoroughly  disgusted,  crept  un- 
der the  fore  deck  again  and  squirted  drops  of 
oil  out  of  his  can. 

Miss  Clarence  ought  to  have  been  interested 
in  the  fact  that  the  young  boatman  was  fond  of 
reading.  His  tastes  in  literature  and  his  eager- 
ness for  knowledge  and  culture  would  have  pro- 
vided excellent  matter  for  an  article.  But  the 
prospect  of  a  royal  marriage  on  Inishrua  excited 
her,  and  she  had  no  curiosity 'left  for  Peter 
Gahan  and  his  books.  She  asked  a  string  of 
eager  questions  about  the  festivities.  Michael 
was  perfectly  willing  to  supply  her  with  infor- 
mation; indeed,  the  voyage  was  not  long  enough 
for  all  her  questions  and  his  answers.  Before 
the  subject  was  exhausted  the  boat  swung  round 
a  rocky  point  into  the  bay  where  the  Inishrua 
harbour  lies. 


A  ROYAL  MARRIAGE  243 

"You  see  the  white  cottage  with  the  double 
gable,  Miss,"  said  Michael.  "Well,  it's  there 
Mary  Nally  lives.  And  that  young  lad  crossing 
the  field  is  her  brother  coming  down  for  the 
post-bag.  The  yellow  house  with  the  slates  on 
it  is  where  the  king  lives.  It's  the  only  slated 
house  they  have  on  the  island.  God  help  them !" 

Peter  Gahan  slowed  and  then  stopped  his  en- 
gine. The  boat  slipped  along  a  grey  stone  pier. 
Michael  stepped  ashore  and  made  fast  a  couple 
of  ropes.  Then  he  gave  his  hand  to  Miss  Clar- 
ence and  helped  her  to  disembark. 

"If  you're  thinking  of  taking  a  walk  through 
the  island,  Miss/'  he  said,  "you'll  have  time 
enough.  There's  no  hurry  in  the  world  about 
starting  home.  Two  hours  or  three  will  be  all 
the  same  to  us." 

Michael  Kane  was  in  no  hurry.  Nor  was 
Peter  Gahan,  who  had  taken  a  pamphlet  from 
his  pocket  and  settled  himself  on  the  edge  of  the 
pier  with  his  feet  dangling  over  the  water.  But 
Miss  Clarence  felt  that  she  had  not  a  moment  to 
lose.  She  did  not  want  to  miss  a  single  detail 
of  the  wedding  festivities.  She  stood  for  an  in- 
stant uncertain  whether  she  should  go  first  to 
the  yellow,  slated  house  of  the  bridegroom  or 
cross  the  field  before  her  to  the  double-gabled 


244  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

cottage  where  the  bride  lived.  She  decided  to  go 
to  the  cottage.  In  any  ordinary  wedding  the 
bride's  house  is  the  scene  of  most  activity,  and 
no  doubt  the  same  rule  holds  good  in  the  case  of 
royal  marriages. 

The  door  of  the  cottage  stood  open,  and  Miss 
Clarence  stepped  into  a  tiny  shop.  It  was  the 
smallest  shop  she  had  ever  seen,  but  it  was 
crammed  from  ceiling  to  floor  with  goods. 

Behind  the  counter  a  woman  of  about  thirty 
years  of  age  sat  on  a  low  stool.  She  was  knitting 
quietly,  and  showed  no  sign  whatever  of  the  ex- 
citement which  usually  fills  a  house  on  the  day 
of  a  wedding.  She  looked  up  when  Miss  Clar- 
ence entered  the  shop.  Then  she  rose  and  laid 
aside  her  knitting.  She  had  clear,  grey  eyes,  an 
unemotional,  self-confident  face,  and  a  lean 
figure. 

"I  came  to  see  Miss  Mary  Nally,"  said  Miss 
Clarence.  "Perhaps  if  she  isn't  too  busy  I  could 
have  a  chat  with  her." 

"Mary  Nally's  my  name,"  said  the  ytoung 
woman  quietly. 

Miss  Clarence  was  surprised  at  the  calm  and 
self-possession  of  the  woman  before  her.  She 
had,  in  the  early  days  of  her  career  as  a  journa- 
list, seen  many  brides.  She  had  never  seen  one 


A  ROYAL  MARRIAGE  245 

quite  so  cool  as  Mary  Nally.  And  this  woman 
was  going  to  marry  a  king!  Miss  Clarence, 
startled  out  of  her  own  self-control,  blurted  out 
more  than  she  meant  to  say. 

"But — but  aren't  you  going  to  be  married?" 
she  said. 

Mary  Nally  smiled  without  a  sign  of  embar- 
rassment. 

"Maybe  I  am,"  she  said,  "some  day." 

"To-day,"  said  Miss  Clarence. 

Mary  Nally,  pulling  aside  a  curtain  of  pen- 
dent shirts,  looked  out  through  the  window  of 
the  little  shop.  She  knew  that  the  post  boat 
had  arrived  at  the  pier  and  that  her  visitor,  a 
stranger  on  the  island,  must  have  come  in  her. 
She  wanted  to  make  sure  that  Michael  Kane  was 
on  board. 

"I  suppose  now,"  she  said,  "that  it  was 
Michael  Kane  told  you  that.  And  it's  likely  old 
Andrew  that  he  said  I  was  marrying." 

"He  said  you  were  going  to  marry  the  King 
of  the  island,"  said  Miss  Clarence. 

"Well,"  said  Mary  Nally,  "that  would  be  old 
Andrew." 

"But  isn't  it  true?"  said  Miss  Clarence. 

A  horrible  suspicion  seized  her.  Michael  Kane 
might  have  been  making  a  fool  of  her. 


246  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

"Michael  Kane  would  tell  you  lies  as  quick 
as  look  at  you,"  she  said;  "but  maybe  it  wasn't 
lies  he  was  telling  this  time.  Come  along  now 
and  we'll  see." 

She  lifted  the  flap  of  the  counter  behind  which 
she  sat  and  passed  into  the  outer  part  of  the 
shop.  She  took  Miss  Clarence  by  the  arm  and 
they  went  together  through  th'e  door.  Miss 
Clarence  expected  to  be  led  down  to  the  pier. 
It  seemed  to  her  plain  that  Mary  Nally  must 
want  to  find  out  from  Michael  whether  he  had 
told  this  outrageous  story  or  not.  She  was  quite 
willing  to  face  the  old  boatman.  Mary  Nally 
would  have  something  bitter  to  say  to  him.  She 
herself  would  say  something  rather  more  bitter 
and  would  say  it  more  fiercely. 

Mary  turned  to  the  right  and  walked  towards 
the  yellow  house  with  the  slate  roof.  She  en- 
tered it,  pulling  Miss  Clarence  after  her. 

An  oldish  man,  very  fat,  but  healthy  looking 
and  strong,  sat  in  an  armchair  near  the  window 
of  the  room  they  entered.  Round  the  walls  were 
barrels  of  porter.  On  the  shelves  were  bottles  of 
whisky.  In  the  middle  of  the  floor,  piled  one 
on  top  of  the  other,  were  three  cases  full  of  soda- 
water  bottles. 

"Andrew,"  said  Mary  Nally,  "there's  a  young 


A  ROYAL  MARRIAGE  247 

lady  here  says  that  you  and  me  is  going  to  be 
married." 

"I've  been  saying  as  much  myself  this  five 
years,"  said  Andrew.  "Ever  since  your  mother 
died.  And  I  don't  know  how  it  is  we  never  done 
it." 

"It  might  be,"  said  Mary,  "because  you  never 
asked  me." 

"Sure,  where  was  the  use  of  my  asking  you," 
said  Andrew,  "when  you  knew  as  well  as  myself 
and  everyone  else  that  it  was  to  be?" 

"Anyway,"  said  Mary,  "the  young  lady  says 
we're  doing  it,  and,  what's  more,  we're  doing  it 
to-day.  What  have  you  to  say  to  that  now, 
Andrew?" 

Andrew  chuckled  in  a  good-humoured  and 
tolerant  way. 

"What  I'd  say  to  that,  Mary,"  he  said,  "is 
that  it  would  be  a  pity  to  disappoint  the  young 
lady  if  her  heart's  set  on  it." 

"It's  not  my  heart  that's  set  on  it,"  said  Miss 
Clarence  indignantly.  "I  don't  care  if  you  never 
get  married.  It's  your  own  hearts,  both  of  them, 
that  ought  to  be  set  on  it." 

As  a  journalist  of  some  years'  experience  she 
had,  of  course,  outgrown  all  sentiment.  But 
she  was  shocked  by  the  cool  indifference  of  these 


248  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

lovers  who  were  prepared  to  marry  merely  to 
oblige  a  stranger  whom  they  had  never  seen  be- 
fore and  were  not  likely  to  see  again.  But  Mary 
Nally  did  not  seem  to  feel  that  there  was  any 
want  of  proper  ardour  in  Andrew's  way  of 
settling  the  date  of  their  wedding. 

"If  you  don't  get  up  out  of  your  chair,"  she 
said,  "and  be  off  to  Father  McFadden  to  tell  him 
what's  wanted,  it'll  never  be  done  either  to-day 
or  any  other  day." 

Andrew  roused  himself  with  a  sigh.  He  took 
his  hat  from  a  peg,  and  a  stout  walking-stick 
from  behind  a  porter  barrel.  Then,  politely  but 
firmly,  he  put  the  two  women  out  of  the  house 
and  locked  the  door  behind  them.  He  was  ready 
to  marry  Mary  Nally — and  her  shop.  He  was 
not  prepared  to  trust  her  among  his  porter  bar- 
rels and  his  whisky  bottles  until  the  ceremony 
was  actually  completed. 

The  law  requires  that  a  certain  decorous  pause 
shall  be  made  before  the  celebration  of  a  mar- 
riage. Papers  must  be  signed  or  banns  pub- 
lished in  church.  But  Father  McFadden  had 
lived  so  long  on  Inishrua  that  he  had  lost  respect 
for  law  and  perhaps  forgotten  what  the  law  was. 
Besides,  Andrew  was  King  of  the  island  by 
right  of  popular  assent,  and  what  is  the  use  of 


A  ROYAL  MARRIAGE  249 

being  a  king  if  you  cannot  override  a  tiresome 
law?  The  marriage  took  place  that  afternoon, 
and  Miss  Clarence  was  present,  acting  as  a  kind 
of  bridesmaid. 

No  sheep  or  heifers  were  killed,  and  no  inor- 
dinate quantity  of  porter  was  drunk.  There 
was,  indeed,  no  special  festivity  on  the  island, 
and  the  other  inhabitants  took  very  little  notice 
of  what  was  happening.  They  were  perhaps, 
as  Michael  Kane  said,  too  sleepy  to  be  stirred 
with  excitement.  But  in  spite  of  the  general 
apathy,  Miss  Clarence  was  fairly  well  satisfied 
with  her  experience.  She  felt  that  she  had  a 
really  novel  subject  for  the  first  of  her  articles 
on  the  life  and  customs  of  the  Irish  islanders. 

The  one  thing  that  vexed  her  was  the  thought 
that  Michael  Kane  had  been  laughing  at  her 
while  he  talked  to  her  on  the  way  out  to  the 
island.  On  the  way  home  she  spoke  to  him 
severely. 

"You've  no  right,"  she  said,  "to  tell  a  pack  of 
lies  to  a  stranger  who  happens  to  be  a  passenger 
in  your  boat." 

"Lies!"  said  Michael.  "What  He  was  in  it? 
Didn't  I  say  they'd  be  married  to-day,  and  they 
were?" 

Miss  Clarence  might  have  retorted  that  no 


250  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

sheep  or  heifers  had  been  killed  and  very  little 
porter  drunk,  but  she  preferred  to  leave  these 
details  aside  and  stick  to  her  main  point. 

"But  they  didn't  mean  to  be  married,"  she 
said,  "and  you  told  me " 

"Begging  your  pardon,  miss,"  said  Michael, 
"but  they  did  mean  it.  Old  Andrew  has  been 
meaning  it  ever  since  Mrs.  Nally  died  and  left 
Mary  with  the  shop.  And  Mary  was  willing 
enough  to  go  with  him  any  day  he  asked  her. 
It's  what  I  was  telling  you  at  the  first  go  off. 
Them  island  people  is  dying  out  for  the  want  of 
being  able  to  keep  from  going  to  sleep.  You 
seen  yourself  the  way  it  was.  Them  ones  never 
would  have  been  married  at  all  only  for  your 
going  to  Inishrua  and  waking  them  up.  It's 
thankful  to  you  they  ought  to  be. 

He  appealed  to  Peter  Gahan,  who  was  crouch- 
ing beside  his  engine  under  the  fore-deck. 

"Oughtn't  they  to  be  thankful  to  the  young 
lady,  Peter,"  he  said,  "seeing  they'd  never  have 
been  married  only  for  her?" 

Peter  Gahan  looked  out  from  his  shelter  and 
scowled.  According  to  the  teaching  of  the  most 
advanced  Socialists  the  marriage  tie  is  not  a 
blessing  but  a  curse. 


XV 

AUNT  NELL 

MRS.  MAcDERMOTT  splashed  her 
way  across  the  yard  towards  the  stable. 
It  was  raining,  softly  and  persistently. 
The  mud  lay  deep.  There  were  pools  of  water 
here  and  there.  Mrs.  MacDermott  neither 
paused  nor  picked  her  steps.  There  was  no  rea- 
son why  she  should.  The  rain  could  not  damage 
the  tweed  cap  on  her  head.  Her  complexion, 
brilliant  as  the  complexions  of  Irish  women  often 
are,  was  not  of  the  kind  that  washes  off.  Her 
rough  grey  skirt,  on  which  rain-drops  glistened, 
came  down  no  further  than  her  knees.  On  her 
feet  were  a  pair  of  rubber  boots  which  reached  up 
to  the  hem  of  her  skirt,  perhaps  further.  She 
was  comfortably  indifferent  to  rain  and  mud. 

If  you  reckon  the  years  since  she  was  born, 
Mrs.  MacDermott  was  nearly  forty.  But  that 
is  no  true  way  of  estimating  the  age  of  man  or 
woman.  Seen,  not  in  the  dusk  with  the  light 
behind  her,  but  in  broad  daylight  on  horseback, 
she  was  little  more  than  thirty.  Such  is  the  re- 

251 


252  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

ward  of  living  an  outdoor  life  in  the  damp  cli- 
mate of  Connaught.  And  her  heart  was  as 
young  as  her  face  and  figure.  She  had  known 
no  serious  troubles  and  very  few  of  the  minor 
cares  of  life.  Her  husband,  a  man  twenty-five 
years  older  than  she  was,  died  after  two  years 
of  married  life,  leaving  her  a  very  comfortable 
fortune.  Nell  MacDermott — the  whole  country 
called  her  Nell — hunted  three  days  a  week  every 
winter. 

"Why  shouldn't  she  be  young?"  John  Gaf- 
ferty,  the  groom,  used  to  say.  "Hasn't  she  five 
good  horses  and  the  full  of  her  skin  of  meat  and 
drink?  The  likes  of  her  never  get  old." 

Johnny  Gafferty  was  rubbing  down  a  tall  bay 
mare  when  Mrs.  MacDermott  opened  the  stable 
door  and  entered  the  loose  box. 

"Johnny,"  she  said,  "you'll  put  the  cob  in  the 
governess  cart  this  afternoon  and  have  him  round 
at  three  o'clock.  I'm  going  up  to  the  station  to 
meet  my  nephew.  I've  had  a  letter  from  his 
father  to  say  he'll  be  here  to-day." 

Johnny  Gafferty,  though  he  had  been  eight 
years  in  Mrs.  MacDermott's  service,  had  never 
before  heard  of  her  nephew. 

"It  could  be,"  he  said,  cautiously,  "that  the 


AUNT  NELL  253 

captain  will  be  bringing  a  horse  with  him,  or 
maybe  two." 

He  felt  that  a  title  of  some  sort  was  due  to 
the  nephew  of  a  lady  like  Mrs.  MacDermott. 
The  assumption  that  he  would  have  a  horse  or 
two  with  him  was  natural.  All  Mrs.  MacDer- 
mott's  friends  hunted. 

"He's  not  a  captain,"  said  Mrs.  MacDermott, 
"and  he's  bringing  no  horses  and  he  doesn't  hunt. 
What's  more,  Johnny,  he  doesn't  even  ride, 
couldn't  sit  on  the  back  of  a  donkey.  So  his 
father  says,  anyway." 

"Glory  be  to  God!"  said  Johnny,  "and  what 
sort  of  a  gentleman  will  he  be  at  all?" 

"He's  a  poet,"  said  Mrs.  MacDermott. 

Johnny  felt  that  he  had  perhaps  gone  beyond 
the  limits  of  respectful  criticism  in  expressing 
his  first  astonishment  at  the  amazing  news  that 
Mrs.  MacDermott's  nephew  could  not  ride. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "there's  worse  things  than 
poetry  in  the  world." 

"Very  few  sillier  things,"  said  Mrs.  MacDer- 
mott. "But  that's  not  the  worse  there  is  about 
him,  Johnny.  His  health  is  completely  broken 
down.  That's  why  he's  coming  here.  Nerve 
strain,  they  call  it." 

"That's  what  they  would  call  it,"  said  Johnny 


254  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

sympathetically,  "when  it's  a  high-up  gentleman 
like  a  nephew  of  your  own.  And  it's  hard  to 
blame  him.  There's  many  a  man  does  be  a  bit 
foolish  without  meaning  any  great  harm  by  it." 

"To  be  a  bit  foolish"  is  a  kindly,  West  of  Ire- 
land  phrase  which  means  to  drink  heavily. 

"It's  not  that/'  said  Mrs.  MacDermott.  "I 
don't  believe  from  what  I've  heard  of  him  that 
the  man  has  even  that  much  in  him.  It's  just 
what  his  father  says,  poetry  and  nerves.  And 
he's  coming  here  for  the  good  of  his  health.  It's 
Mr.  Bertram  they  call  him,  Mr.  Bertram  Con- 
nell." 

Mrs.  MacDermott  walked  up  and  down  the 
platform  waiting  for  the  arrival  of  her  nephew's 
train.  She  was  dressed  in  a  very  becoming  pale 
blue  tweed  and  had  wrapped  a  silk  muffler  of  a 
rather  brighter  blue  round  her  neck.  Her  brown 
shoes,  though  strong,  were  very  well  made  and 
neat.  Between  them  and  her  skirt  was  a  con- 
siderable stretch  of  knitted  stocking,  blue  like 
the  tweed.  Her  ankles  were  singularly  well- 
formed  and  comely.  The  afternoon  had  turned 
out  to  be  fine  and  she  had  taken  some  trouble 
about  her  dress  before  setting  out  to  meet  a 
strange  nephew  whom  she  had  not  seen  since  he 
was  five  years  old.  She  might  have  taken  more 


AUNT  NELL  255 

trouble  still  if  the  nephew  had  been  anything 
more  exciting  than  a  nerve-shattered  poet. 

The  train  steamed  in  at  last.  Only  one  pas- 
senger got  out  of  a  first-class  carriage.  Mrs. 
MacDermott  looked  at  him  in  doubt.  He  was 
not  in  the  least  the  sort  of  man  she  expected  to 
see.  Poets,  so  she  understood,  have  long  hair 
and  sallow,  clean-shaven  faces.  This  young 
man's  head  was  closely-cropped  and  he  had  a 
fair  moustache.  He  was  smartly  dressed  in  well- 
fitting  clothes.  Poets  are,  or  ought  to  be,  sloppy 
in  their  attire.  Also,  judged  by  the  colour  of  his 
cheeks  and  his  vigorous  step,  this  man  was  in  per- 
fect health.  Mrs.  MacDermott  approached  him 
with  some  hesitation.  The  young  man  was 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  platform  looking 
around.  His  eyes  rested  on  Mrs.  MacDermott 
for  a  moment,  but  passed  from  her  again.  He 
was  expecting  someone  whom  he  did  not  see. 

"Are  you  Bertram  Connell,  by  any  chance?" 
asked  Mrs.  MacDermott. 

"That's  me,"  said  the  young  man,  "and  I'm 
expecting  an  aunt  to  meet  me.  I  say,  are  you  a 
cousin?  I  didn't  know  I  had  a  cousin." 

The  mistake  was  an  excusable  one.  Mrs. 
MacDermott  looked  very  young  and  pretty  in 
her  blue  tweed.  She  appreciated  the  compliment 


256  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

paid  her  all  the  more  because  it  was  obviously 
sincere. 

"You  haven't  any  cousins,"  she  said.  "Not 
on  your  father's  side,  anyway.  I'm  your  aunt." 

"Aunt  Nell!"  he  said,  plainly  startled  by  the 
information.  "Great  Scott!  and  I  thought " 

He  paused  and  looked  at  Mrs.  MacDermott 
with  genuine  surprise.  Then  he  recovered  his 
self-possession.  He  put  his  arm  round  her  neck 
and  kissed  her  heartily,  first  on  one  cheek,  then 
on  the  other. 

Aunts  are  kissed  by  their  nephews  every  day 
as  a  matter  of  course.  They  expect  it.  Mrs. 
MacDermott  had  not  thought  about  the  matter 
beforehand.  If  she  had  she  would  have  taken 
it  for  granted  that  Bertram  would  kiss  her,  oc- 
casionally, uncomfortably  and  without  convic- 
tion. The  kisses  she  actually  received  embar- 
rassed her.  She  even  blushed  a  little  and  was 
annoyed  with  herself  for  blushing. 

"There  doesn't  seem  to  be  much  the  matter 
with  your  nerve,"  she  said. 

Bertram  became  suddenly  grave. 

"My  nerves  are  in  a  rotten  state,"  he  said. 
"The  doctor — specialist,  you  know,  tip-top  man 
— said  the  only  thing  for  me  was  life  in  the 


AUNT  NELL  257 

country,  fresh  air,  birds,  flowers,  new  milk,  all 
that  sort  of  thing." 

"Your  father  wrote  all  that  to  me,"  said  Mrs. 
MacDermott. 

"Poor  old  dad,"  said  Bertram,  "he's  horribly 
upset  about  it." 

Mrs.  MacDermott  was  further  puzzled  about 
her  nephew's  nervous  breakdown  when  she  sug- 
gested about  7  o'clock  that  it  was  time  to  dress 
for  dinner.  Bertram  who  had  been  talking 
cheerfully  and  smoking  a  good  deal,  put  his  arm 
round  her  waist  and  ran  her  upstairs. 

"Jolly  thing  to  have  an  aunt  like  you,"  he 
said. 

Mrs.  MacDermott  was  slightly  out  of  breath 
and  angry  with  herself  for  blushing  again.  At 
bedtime  she  refused  a  good-night  kiss  with  some 
dignity.  Bertram  protested. 

"Oh,  I  say,  Aunt  Nell,  that's  all  rot,  you 
know.  An  aunt  is  just  one  of  the  people  you 
do  kiss,  night  and  morning." 

"No,  you  don't,"  she  said,  "and  anyway  you 
won't  get  the  chance  to-morrow  morning.  I 
shall  be  off  early.  It's  a  hunting  day." 

"Can't  I  get  a  horse  somewhere?"  said  Ber- 
tram. 


258  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

Mrs.  MacDermott  looked  at  him  in  astonish- 
ment. 

"Your  father  told  me,"  she  said,  "that  you 
couldn't  ride  and  had  never  been  on  a  horse  in 
your  life." 

"Did  he  say  that?  The  poor  dad!  I  suppose 
he  was  afraid  I'd  break  my  neck." 

"If  you're  suffering  from  nervous  break- 
down  " 

"I  am.  Frightfully.  That's  why  they  sent 
me  here." 

"Then  you  shouldn't  hunt,"  said  Mrs.  Mac- 
Dermott. "You  should  sit  quietly  in  the  library 
and  write  poetry.  That  reminds  me,  the  rector 
is  coming  to  dinner  to-night.  I  thought  you'd 
like  to  meet  him." 

"Why?     Is  he  a  sporting  old  bird?" 

"Not  in  the  least;  but  he's  the  only  man  about 
this  country  who  knows  anything  about  poetry. 
That's  why  I  asked  him." 

Johnny  Gafferty  made  a  report  to  Mrs.  Mac- 
Dermott when  she  returned  from  hunting  which 
surprised  her  a  good  deal. 

"The  young  gentleman,  ma'am,"  he  said, 
"was  round  in  the  stable  this  morning,  shortly 
after  you  leaving.  And  nothing  would  do  him 
only  for  me  to  saddle  the  bay  for  him." 


AUNT  NELL  259 

"Did  you  do  it?" 

"What  else  could  I  do,"  said  Gafferty,  "when 
his  heart  was  set  on  it?" 

"I  suppose  he's  broken  his  own  neck  and  the 
mare's  knees,"  said  Mrs.  MacDermott. 

"He  has  not  then.  Neither  the  one  nor  the 
other.  I  don't  know  how  he'd  do  if  you  faced 
him  with  a  stone  wall,  but  the  way  he  took  the 
bay  over  the  fence  at  the  end  of  the  paddock 
was  as  neat  as  ever  I  seen.  You  couldn't  have 
done  it  better  yourself,  ma'am." 

"He  can  ride,  then?" 

"Ride!"  said  Gafferty.  "Is  it  ride?  If  his 
poetry  is  no  worse  nor  his  riding  he'll  make 
money  by  it  yet." 

The  dinner  with  the  rector  was  not  an  entire 
success.  The  clergyman,  warned  beforehand 
that  he  was  to  entertain  a  well-known  poet,  had 
prepared  himself  by  reading  several  books  of 
Wordsworth's  Excursion.  Bertram  shied  at  the 
name  of  Wordsworth  and  insisted  on  hearing 
from  his  aunt  a  detailed  account  of  the  day's 
run.  This  puzzled  Mrs.  MacDermott  a  little; 
but  she  hit  upon  an  explanation  which  satisfied 
her.  The  rector  was  enthusiastic  in  his  admira- 
tion of  Wordsworth.  Bertram,  a  poet  himself, 
evidently  suffered  from  professional  jealousy. 


260  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

Mrs.  MacDermott,  who  had  looked  forward  to 
her  nephew's  visit  with  dread,  began  to  enjoy  it. 
Bertram  was  a  cheerful  young  man  with  an  easy 
flow  of  slangy  conversation.  His  tastes  were 
very  much  the  same  as  Mrs.  MacDermott's  own. 
He  smoked,  and  drank  whisky  and  soda  in  mod- 
erate quantities.  He  behaved  in  all  respects 
like  a  normal  man,  showing  no  signs  of  the  ner- 
vousness which  goes  with  the  artistic  tempera- 
ment. His  politeness  to  her  and  the  trouble  he 
took  about  her  comfort  in  small  matters  were 
very  pleasant.  He  had  large  handsome  blue 
eyes,  and  Mrs.  MacDermott  liked  the  way  he 
looked  at  her.  His  gaze  expressed  a  frank  ad- 
miration which  was  curiously  agreeable. 

A  week  after  his  arrival  Mrs.  MacDermott 
paid  a  high  compliment  to  her  nephew.  She 
promised  to  mount  him  on  the  bay  mare  and  take 
him  out  hunting.  She  had  satisfied  herself  that 
Johnny  Gafferty  was  not  mistaken  and  that  the 
young  man  really  could  ride.  Bertram,  excited 
and  in  high  good  humour,  succeeded,  before  she 
had  time  to  protest,  in  giving  her  a  hearty  kiss 
of  gratitude. 

The  morning  of  the  hunt  was  warm  and  moist. 
The  meet  was  in  one  of  the  most  favourable 
places  in  the  country.  Mrs.  MacDermott,  draw- 


AUNT  NELL  261 

ing  on  her  gloves  in  the  hall  before  starting, 
noted  with  gratification  that  her  nephew's 
breeches  were  well-cut  and  his  stock  neatly 
fastened.  Johnny  Gafferty  could  be  heard  out- 
side the  door  speaking  to  the  horses  which  he 
held  ready. 

A  telegraph  boy  arrived  on  a  bicycle.  He 
handed  the  usual  orange  envelope  to  Mrs.  Mac- 
Dermott.  She  tore  it  open  impatiently  and 
glanced  at  the  message  inside.  She  gave  an 
exclamation  of  surprise  and  read  the  message 
through  slowly  and  carefully.  Then,  without 
a  word,  she  handed  it  to  her  nephew. 

"Very  sorry,"  the  telegram  ran,  "only  to-day 
discovered  that  Bertram  had  not  gone  to  you  as 
arranged.  He  is  in  a  condition  of  complete 
prostration.  Cannot  start  now.  Connell." 

"It's  from  my  brother,"  said  Mrs.  MacDer- 
mott,  "but  what  on  earth  does  it  mean?  You're 
here  all  right,  aren't  you?" 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I'm  here." 

He  laid  a  good  deal  of  emphasis  on  the  "I." 
Mrs.  MacDermott  looked  at  him  with  sudden 
suspicion. 

"I've  had  a  top-hole  time,"  he  said.  "What 
an  utterly  incompetent  rotter  Connell  is!  He 


262  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

had  nothing  on  earth  to  do  but  lie  low.  His 
father  couldn't  have  found  out." 

Mrs.  MacDermott  walked  over  to  the  door 
and  addressed  Gafferty. 

"Johnny,"  she  said,  "the  horses  won't  be 
wanted  to-day."  She  turned  to  the  young  man 
who  stood  beside  her.  "Now,"  she  said,  "come 
into  the  library  and  explain  what  all  this  means." 

"Oh,  I  say,  Aunt  Nell,"  he  said,  "don't  let's 
miss  the  day.  I'll  explain  the  whole  thing  to 
you  in  the  evening  after  dinner." 

"You'll  explain  it  now,  if  you  can." 

She  led  the  way  into  the  library. 

"It's  quite  simple  really,"  he  said.  "Bertram 
Connell,  your  nephew,  though  a  poet  and  all 
that,  is  rather  an  ass." 

"Are  you  Bertram  Connell,  or  are  you  not?" 
said  Mrs.  MacDermott. 

"Oh  Lord,  no.  I'm  not  that  sort  of  fellow  at 
all.  I  couldn't  write  a  line  of  poetry  to  save  my 
life.  He's — you  simply  can't  imagine  how 
frightfully  brainy  he  is.  All  the  same  I  rather 
like  him.  He  was  my  fag  at  school  and  we  were 
up  together  at  Cambridge.  I've  more  or  less 
kept  up  with  him  ever  since.  He's  more  like  a 
girl  than  a  man,  you  know.  I  daresay  that's 
why  I  liked  him.  Then  he  crocked  up,  nerves 


AUNT  NELL  263 

and  that  sort  of  thing.  And  they  said  he  must 
come  over  here.  He  didn't  like  the  notion  a  bit. 
I  was  in  London  just  then  on  leave,  and  he  told 
me  how  he  hated  the  idea." 

"So  did  I,"  said  Mrs.  MacDermott. 

"I  said  that  he  was  a  silly  ass  and  that  if  I 
had  the  chance  of  a  month  in  the  west  of  Ireland 
in  a  sporting  sort  of  house — he  told  me  you 
hunted  a  lot — I'd  simply  jump  at  it.  But  the 
poor  fellow  was  frightfully  sick  at  the  prospect, 
said  he  was  sure  he  wouldn't  get  on  with  you, 
and  that  you'd  simply  hate  him.  He  had  a  book 
of  poetry  just  coming  out  and  he  was  hoping  to 
get  a  play  of  his  taken  on,  a  play  about  fairies. 
I  give  you  my  word  he  was  very  near  crying,  so, 
after  a  lot  of  talking,  we  hit  on  the  idea  of  my 
coming  here.  He  was  to  lie  low  in  London  so 
that  his  father  wouldn't  find  him." 

"You  neither  of  you  thought  about  me,  ap- 
parently," said  Mrs.  MacDermott. 

"Oh,  yes  we  did.  We  thought  as  you  hadn't 
seen  him  since  he  was  a  child  that  you  wouldn't 
know  him.  And  of  course  we  thought  you'd  be 
frightfully  old.  There  didn't  seem  to  be  much 
harm  in  it." 

"And  you — you  came  here  and  called  me  Aunt 
Nell." 


264  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 

"You're  far  the  nicest  aunt  I've  ever  seen  or 
even  imagined." 

"And  you  actually  had  the  cheek  to " 

Mrs.  MacDermott  stopped  abruptly  and 
blushed.  She  was  thinking  of  the  kisses.  His 
thoughts  followed  hers,  though  she  did  not  com- 
plete the  sentence. 

"Only  the  first  day,"  he  said.  "You  wouldn't 
let  me  afterwards.  Except  once,  and  you  didn't 
really  let  me  then.  I  just  did  it.  I  give  you  my 
word  I  couldn't  help  it.  You  looked  so  jolly. 
No  fellow  could  have  helped  it.  I  believe  Ber- 
tram would  have  done  the  same,  though  he  is  a 
poet." 

"And  now,"  said  Mrs.  MacDermott,  "before 
you  go " 

"Must  I  go " 

"Out  of  this  house  and  back  to  London  to- 
day," said  Mrs.  MacDermott.  "But  before  you 
go  I'd  rather  like  to  know  who  you  are,  since 
you're  not  Bertram  Connell." 

"My  name  is  Maitland,  Robert  Maitland,  but 
they  generally  call  me  Bob.  I'm  in  the  30th  Lan- 
cers. I  say,  it  was  rather  funny  your  thinking 
I  couldn't  ride  and  turning  on  that  old  parson 
to  talk  poetry  to  me." 

Mrs.  MacDermott  allowed  herself  to  smile. 


AUNT  NELL  265 

The  matter  was  really  settled  that  day  before 
Bob  Maitland  left  for  London;  but  it  was  a  week 
later  when  Mrs.  MacDermott  announced  her 
decision  to  her  brother. 

"There's  no  fool  like  an  old  fool,"  she  wrote, 
"and  at  my  age  I  ought  to  have  more  sense. 
But  I  took  to  Bob  the  moment  I  saw  him,  and  if 
he  makes  as  good  a  husband  as  he  did  a  nephew 
we'll  get  on  together  all  right — though  he  is  a 
few  years  younger  than  I  am." 


THE   END 


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